area,” whispered Peter. “That’s a rhino midden. The rhino sniffs the dung and adds to the pile. It’s like a message station. All rhinos in the vicinity use it as a public toilet, so to speak, and learn who’s wandering the neighborhood. It’s a large one… that means there’s quite a few white rhino about.”
I adjusted the telephoto lens of the Nikon before snapping twenty more shots. The rhino just kept chewing, its small eyes examining us with as much interest as we did it.
“The white rhino isn’t really white at all,” Peter explained softly. “His Afrikaans name is actually derived from the wide lip he uses in grazing. The black rhino forages on brush and shrubs and therefore is hook-mouthed and much smaller in size. It’s also much more aggressive. Unfortunately, both species are highly endangered.”
The rhino, likely tired of all my photographic nonsense, trotted daintily back into the thick brush. I flopped back down into my seat and sighed blissfully.
“What a heavenly day. I just can’t understand how anyone could kill those beautiful animals,” I stated.
“They’re heavily poached for their horns. The Asian market pays very well for their ‘medicinal’ properties. They’re suspected to be a strong aphrodisiac. I imagine you’re getting hungry. I know a great rest stop a few kilometers away where we can lunch.”
The pristine rest stop came equipped with modern bathrooms tucked under shady marula trees. At a cluster of picnic benches I offered up my cheese and fruit while Peter pulled out the large picnic basket. He spread out a red-checkered tablecloth over the roughly hewn table. Black iridescent starlings hopped close by, hoping for spare crumbs from our delicious chicken salad sandwiches and hardboiled eggs. Chattering a few trees away, a trio of vervet monkeys twitched and sprang from limb to limb.
“If those infernal monkeys get too close, just give ‘em a whack,” said Peter, his eyes scanning the horizon. “I had one grab a potato out of my hand right before it was set to encounter the frying pan a few months back, while I led a walking trek in Chobe. Devious little devils they are.”
“You love all this don’t you?” I asked taking a bite of my now-shelled egg.
“I really can’t imagine doing anything else. Everything is so connected here, so alive and vibrant. If a visitor is patient, not like some of our tourists, they can witness truly amazing sights.”
“I’m patient,” I stated quietly.
“I sense that.” Peter stared a long while into my hazel eyes while a smile tugged at his deep laugh lines.
“Educate me about the Everglades,” he demanded, and so there, in the deep shade of the trees, listening to the unceasing chatter of the ever-present starlings, I spoke about the massive wetlands of Florida, the mangrove swamps, gliding alligators and white cranes. He listened intently, as if I were some sort of expert about my state’s national treasure.
“I’d like to explore those swamps someday,’ he said finally, refusing my help in cleaning up our debris. “I’d love to compare them to the Okavango Delta.”
I left him to his task, his sure hands removing every scrap of our lunch, and wandered the fenced confines of the small rest stop. As I watched a cluster of tiny yellow birds dip and swoop around a red-flowered bush, contentment such as I’d never known before stole into my very soul. I glanced back at the trim man busy in his mundane tasks and felt a rush of desire so powerful it nearly took my breath away. Patience, Peter had suggested, so patient I would remain.
We arrived back at Letaba just as the gates closed at 5:30. Peter had paused obediently every time I’d asked to take several more photographs of male impala, and I snapped an especially fine one of a young buck with his head turned toward us, the sun sinking behind him. After parking the jeep, Peter escorted me through the lush camp, pausing as I read each and every
I adjusted the telephoto lens of the Nikon before snapping twenty more shots. The rhino just kept chewing, its small eyes examining us with as much interest as we did it.
“The white rhino isn’t really white at all,” Peter explained softly. “His Afrikaans name is actually derived from the wide lip he uses in grazing. The black rhino forages on brush and shrubs and therefore is hook-mouthed and much smaller in size. It’s also much more aggressive. Unfortunately, both species are highly endangered.”
The rhino, likely tired of all my photographic nonsense, trotted daintily back into the thick brush. I flopped back down into my seat and sighed blissfully.
“What a heavenly day. I just can’t understand how anyone could kill those beautiful animals,” I stated.
“They’re heavily poached for their horns. The Asian market pays very well for their ‘medicinal’ properties. They’re suspected to be a strong aphrodisiac. I imagine you’re getting hungry. I know a great rest stop a few kilometers away where we can lunch.”
The pristine rest stop came equipped with modern bathrooms tucked under shady marula trees. At a cluster of picnic benches I offered up my cheese and fruit while Peter pulled out the large picnic basket. He spread out a red-checkered tablecloth over the roughly hewn table. Black iridescent starlings hopped close by, hoping for spare crumbs from our delicious chicken salad sandwiches and hardboiled eggs. Chattering a few trees away, a trio of vervet monkeys twitched and sprang from limb to limb.
“If those infernal monkeys get too close, just give ‘em a whack,” said Peter, his eyes scanning the horizon. “I had one grab a potato out of my hand right before it was set to encounter the frying pan a few months back, while I led a walking trek in Chobe. Devious little devils they are.”
“You love all this don’t you?” I asked taking a bite of my now-shelled egg.
“I really can’t imagine doing anything else. Everything is so connected here, so alive and vibrant. If a visitor is patient, not like some of our tourists, they can witness truly amazing sights.”
“I’m patient,” I stated quietly.
“I sense that.” Peter stared a long while into my hazel eyes while a smile tugged at his deep laugh lines.
“Educate me about the Everglades,” he demanded, and so there, in the deep shade of the trees, listening to the unceasing chatter of the ever-present starlings, I spoke about the massive wetlands of Florida, the mangrove swamps, gliding alligators and white cranes. He listened intently, as if I were some sort of expert about my state’s national treasure.
“I’d like to explore those swamps someday,’ he said finally, refusing my help in cleaning up our debris. “I’d love to compare them to the Okavango Delta.”
I left him to his task, his sure hands removing every scrap of our lunch, and wandered the fenced confines of the small rest stop. As I watched a cluster of tiny yellow birds dip and swoop around a red-flowered bush, contentment such as I’d never known before stole into my very soul. I glanced back at the trim man busy in his mundane tasks and felt a rush of desire so powerful it nearly took my breath away. Patience, Peter had suggested, so patient I would remain.
We arrived back at Letaba just as the gates closed at 5:30. Peter had paused obediently every time I’d asked to take several more photographs of male impala, and I snapped an especially fine one of a young buck with his head turned toward us, the sun sinking behind him. After parking the jeep, Peter escorted me through the lush camp, pausing as I read each and every
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