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Authors: Loren Lockner
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one of the markers denoting the various plant species found inside the electric fence. Under his tutelage, I gratifyingly identified more than forty different plants including the lala palm, bushwillow, and umbrella acacia, his quiet manner bolstering my knowledge and confidence. We tarried upon one of the wooden benches overlooking the Letaba River while I fantasized aloud about changing my career and working as a game warden in a place such as this.
I sneaked a glance at Peter. He sat idly gazing over the river, where some sort of antelope had edged down for an evening drink. I suddenly wished I was more like him, so quietly confident and in harmony with his surroundings.
I pensively thought about what Peter had told me about Paul Kruger. Worried about the destruction of the region through rampant hunting and gold prospecting, he had created a preserve to save the flora and the fauna of the area. During our game drive I had discovered that not only was Peter knowledgeable about the park, but passionate about the preservation of its creatures and plants.
He accompanied me to my rondavel that evening after a light supper of warthog stew and salad in the rustic restaurant.
“So, did I pass muster today, ma’am?” he asked lightly.
“It’s been the best day of my life,” I answered simply.
“So I take it I’m allowed to remain your guide tomorrow?”
“You may accompany me anywhere,” I said breathlessly. He had changed from his khakis into dark linen trousers and a short-sleeved white shirt before dinner, and smelled of soap and South African wine.
Peter drew closer and under the moonlight, neither of us aware that a tiny muskrat watched from under a low shrub, he kissed me. It wasn’t the sanitized, highly-practiced kiss of Josh the physician, but one from a man of the bush; vibrant, alive, and pulsing with need. He pulled back and stared for a long time into my eyes until finally I gave a small nod. He didn’t hesitate as I pulled him into my small but comfortable room. He never faltered as I pulled his shirt from his trousers and struggled with my own clothes. He never complained that the bed was too small or my lips too greedy. I absorbed him like some woman parched from a long drought of love. Peter matched my every kiss and every need, and met tenderness with tenderness. Afterwards, as the moon drenched my bed in lunar caresses, we cuddled in the aftermath of authentic lovemaking. He finally drifted off to sleep, and contentment descended upon me as I lay peacefully in Africa’s arms.
I’d never expected that my concept of heaven would turn into a game park, but over the next few days, it did. Peter greeted me each morning with a smile and a kiss before suggesting a route.
I thought nothing could surpass the rustic beauty of Letaba, but after moving to the desert-like Mopani camp and peering at the huge baobab tree that stood smack-center inside the large enclosure, I wasn’t sure which I preferred. My small chalet overlooked the brimming dam and that night, having purchased wood to burn in the barbecue, or braai pit as the South Africans dubbed it, we listened to the hoarse, mooing cries of the hippo. Peter gave up the pretense of having a separate room and we pushed the two twin beds together in mutual accord.
Peter relayed that Mopani was named after the deciduous mopane tree, which can reach a height of eighteen meters. During July and August its leaves turn yellow, drooping like butterfly wings from which large, leathery pods hang in clusters. I was later to brand the mopane tree the leopard tree, since I continually searched its tall grayish-white trunk in hopes I’d spot one of the large felines draped over its branches. Unfortunately, we never ran into this most elusive of the Big Five. Peter fashioned a chart for me of the flora and fauna of the park to keep careful track of all we encountered. The rhino was our only glimpse of one of the Big Five, and Peter chided me gently about how
I sneaked a glance at Peter. He sat idly gazing over the river, where some sort of antelope had edged down for an evening drink. I suddenly wished I was more like him, so quietly confident and in harmony with his surroundings.
I pensively thought about what Peter had told me about Paul Kruger. Worried about the destruction of the region through rampant hunting and gold prospecting, he had created a preserve to save the flora and the fauna of the area. During our game drive I had discovered that not only was Peter knowledgeable about the park, but passionate about the preservation of its creatures and plants.
He accompanied me to my rondavel that evening after a light supper of warthog stew and salad in the rustic restaurant.
“So, did I pass muster today, ma’am?” he asked lightly.
“It’s been the best day of my life,” I answered simply.
“So I take it I’m allowed to remain your guide tomorrow?”
“You may accompany me anywhere,” I said breathlessly. He had changed from his khakis into dark linen trousers and a short-sleeved white shirt before dinner, and smelled of soap and South African wine.
Peter drew closer and under the moonlight, neither of us aware that a tiny muskrat watched from under a low shrub, he kissed me. It wasn’t the sanitized, highly-practiced kiss of Josh the physician, but one from a man of the bush; vibrant, alive, and pulsing with need. He pulled back and stared for a long time into my eyes until finally I gave a small nod. He didn’t hesitate as I pulled him into my small but comfortable room. He never faltered as I pulled his shirt from his trousers and struggled with my own clothes. He never complained that the bed was too small or my lips too greedy. I absorbed him like some woman parched from a long drought of love. Peter matched my every kiss and every need, and met tenderness with tenderness. Afterwards, as the moon drenched my bed in lunar caresses, we cuddled in the aftermath of authentic lovemaking. He finally drifted off to sleep, and contentment descended upon me as I lay peacefully in Africa’s arms.
I’d never expected that my concept of heaven would turn into a game park, but over the next few days, it did. Peter greeted me each morning with a smile and a kiss before suggesting a route.
I thought nothing could surpass the rustic beauty of Letaba, but after moving to the desert-like Mopani camp and peering at the huge baobab tree that stood smack-center inside the large enclosure, I wasn’t sure which I preferred. My small chalet overlooked the brimming dam and that night, having purchased wood to burn in the barbecue, or braai pit as the South Africans dubbed it, we listened to the hoarse, mooing cries of the hippo. Peter gave up the pretense of having a separate room and we pushed the two twin beds together in mutual accord.
Peter relayed that Mopani was named after the deciduous mopane tree, which can reach a height of eighteen meters. During July and August its leaves turn yellow, drooping like butterfly wings from which large, leathery pods hang in clusters. I was later to brand the mopane tree the leopard tree, since I continually searched its tall grayish-white trunk in hopes I’d spot one of the large felines draped over its branches. Unfortunately, we never ran into this most elusive of the Big Five. Peter fashioned a chart for me of the flora and fauna of the park to keep careful track of all we encountered. The rhino was our only glimpse of one of the Big Five, and Peter chided me gently about how
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