By Cam Smith
We banked over the river and around the kopje. The makeshift red dirt runway appeared as a cutout in the afternoon haze amongst the mopane forest and occasional baobab, sitting snuggly alongside the water. An open-topped Land Rover manned by dark men in army green coveralls sat still in the shade. The scouts were silent, cupping their eyes with their hands and peering into the sky towards the increasing volume of the propeller cutting air and closing the distance. Upon spotting our plane, they cranked up and the Rover disappeared. Soon they emerged at the far end of the runway barreling full speed into our landing zone with the sole purpose of clearing the hundreds of impala from impeding our touchdown. The drifting dust settled low as our pilot braked, whirled to a stop, and unbuckled so that he could open the door of the plane.
I’d dreamed of a safari for years. I’d imagined stepping off the plane, closing my eyes, and taking it all in. Finally, the dreaming was over. When the door opened, I grabbed the wing with sweaty palms and planted my boots onto the red dirt. With my eyes closed, I lifted my head to the heavens. The sensation of a hot, dry, closer-to-the-sun heat on my skin. Salty sweat beading around my face and running into the corners of my mouth. Birds not known to my ears trilling from nearby branches. River water sparkling as it carried rock sediment older than time downstream on its journey to the ocean. Mixed odors of recently scattered wild game, sweat, and airplane fuel hung heavy. A moment in time burned into my senses like no other in my life.
Soon thereafter, we found ourselves in camp. Beautifully manicured grounds hidden deep in the African bush. Small thatched huts, an open-air pavilion resting atop a bluff overlooking another lazy river. Red flowers and lush green plants lining the narrow dirt paths between various outparcels of home for the duration of our stay. Woodsmoke swirling into the light winter breeze creating a satisfaction within my nostrils. Later in the evening by the stone firepit, red-orange flames licked the darkness and crackles sparked into the night as we prepared for our first sleep on the Dark Continent. As the last embers smoldered, the wind brought the guttural roar of lions from across the river into my ears, piercing the stillness and rattling my soul. In mere moments, doubt and reluctance permeated what once was confidence. The surety of dominion that man has over beast evaporated in that instant.
Across time, civilized men that hunt have grown further away from the utility of our senses. Simultaneously, uncivilized men being hunted have honed their senses to beat the odds of becoming the prey of predators that kill and eat to survive. I laid still on my bed for the next few hours thinking about the new experiences ahead. Deep into the night the intensity of my senses remained at a new high. Would I be hunting, or would I be hunted? I sensed it would be both; and that is the thrill of Africa.
