Read Online Heart of Africa by Loren Lockner - Free Book Online Page B

each and every sighting was a gift when I became impatient. A gift, I reminded myself, just as each and every minute near him was a gift.
    Mopani stood high above the Pioneer Dam, its bungalows made of stone and thatch, and my room was more spacious and inviting than my rondavel at Letaba. Each night we piled wood in the braai pit and reviewed the day’s sightings. On the way back to camp that first evening, we’d observed a large herd of Burchell’s zebra browsing upon dry stalks of grass. They were a marvel with their heavy bellies and plodding ways, bristled tufts of hair standing erect upon their thick, powerful necks. I still half-expected them to exemplify the traditional black-and-white zebras of children’s textbooks, but was getting used to this less familiar species.
    I felt sure I always missed more animals than I detected, but never once felt let down. Peter made every spotting a joy and an education. His quiet tones instructed me and his gentle arms healed me. Once, we just sat at a nearly-dry waterhole simply to watch the scurrying antics of the common blue-helmeted Guinea fowl. We were content to watch peacefully, munching on sour apples, while countless other cars roared up, shot one exasperated glance at what I was sure they considered folly, and then exited in a cloud of fine dust, Peter’s laughter following in their oblivious wake. It was their loss. I could linger for hours, absorbing the sun like the rainbow rock skink I often noted basking upon dusty rocks by the road. Wild Africa and Peter became my lovers, filling the void that had been my own shallow life before this excursion. I never wanted to go home.
     
    “Mandy, quick, get up and grab your camera!” hissed Peter our second evening in Mopani. Startled, I dressed quickly and tiptoed to the door. Peter remained still, dropping a warm arm over my shoulders. Each chalet at Mopani is surrounded by brush and large river boulders, and most overlook the dam. That very afternoon I had rested contentedly upon a large rock and watched a small, rosy lizard bask in the sun.
    Now, near that selfsame boulder and illuminated by the flickering reach of flame, an amazing creature crouched, its eyes glowing red in the firelight. Large rounded ears, pointed muzzle, and unique black bars highlighted its burning eyes. The cat-like creature hunched down, warily eyeing us as we stood motionless upon the elevated porch. It had a long-striped, buff-colored feline body spotted with black circles the size of walnuts. It meowed softly. Too large for an African wild cat, the feline possessed a long, slim tail tipped in black. I moved quickly and managed to snap three shots before the creature reacted. The ensuing flash momentarily paralyzed the beautiful, three-foot-long nocturnal predator. The bright glare dissipating, the feline disappeared into the thick shrub without a sound.
    Heart thudding, I glanced up at Peter for identification.
    “Our nighttime visitor was none other than the large-spotted genet. It’s a cat that hides in holes or dense trees by day and turns into the bane of rats and mice at night. She only achieves four pounds or so at maturity. You’re lucky to have seen one.”
    “I am lucky,” I whispered and pulled him back into the warmth of our room and pushed-together bed. “So very, very lucky,” I repeated as he later smiled above me in the moonlight-drenched chalet.
     
    It was with some sadness that we departed the dry camp of Mopani to head for my last camp. We meandered northward with that deep sense of regret accompanying those who know a perfect holiday is nearing an end. Three days remained before I had to catch my return flight to Cape Town, and we planned to make the most of them. Peter assured me he’d contact his sister to book a tour of the wine country and would stay with me at The Vineyard. We made no other plans. There was time for that later.
    The northern camp of Shingwedzi seemed relatively old-fashioned when compared with