SAFARI - Overbooked: The Exploding Business of Travel and Tourism - page 153

an eye out for food to steal. Further ahead a lone giraffe was munching leaves on the top
of a spindly tree. Finally we came upon a herd of zebras grazing near a clear river. When
they turned around, their wet brown noses gleamed in the morning sun. A mile further
on, monkeys were sharing a grassy plateau with impalas. To complete the picture a white
stork deftly marched on his stilt-high legs into a neighboring stream, plunged his beak into
the muddy waters and came up with a fish. It was breakfast time on the savannah.
Three hours passed in five minutes. I had walked through the looking glass into an
entirely complete “other world” where humans and their edifices were sidelined, ceding
primacy to these African beasts and birds and their wilderness homes. In minutes the fores-
ted plains no longer looked exotic. It seemed preternaturally normal for giraffes and zebras
and lions and storks to go about their business of hunting, grazing and chasing after mates.
We tourists watching from the Land Cruiser were the anomaly.
After a swim at the lodge's pool, lunch and a nap, I packed an overnight bag and drove
to Kapamba, one of the six remote base camps operated by the Bushcamp Company that
also owns the Mfuwe Lodge. Together, the lodge and camps form one of the few resort
areas permitted within the confines of South Luangwa Park. I left midafternoon with Steve
and Calvin, a second guide who was needed at Kapamba. The trip would take four hours
driving south-southwest as we left the rim of the park for the remote interior. At that time
the sun's rays melted into dusky rose streaks across the darkening sky. One of the main
roads had been flooded out during the rainy season, forcing us to take a detour climbing
over a range of rugged hills. To the west a small herd of elephants was lumbering toward
a copse of trees where several of the leaders had begun tearing down branches to get their
daily fill. Each requires 300 kilograms of forage daily, which sounded like a lot, but it is
less in proportion to their weight than the diet of mice. We stopped to gaze a few minutes.
Their solid gray bodies, with their noble trunks, blended into the scenery as comfortably
as buffalo herds in North America.
Calvin threw cold water on my reverie: “Forty years ago there were a hundred thousand
elephants in the park. The government culled fifty thousand and the poachers killed thirty-
five thousand until there were only fifteen thousand left. The poachers didn't stop, and
then the population was down to four thousand until the World Wildlife Fund paid for an
antipoaching patrol. We are back up to twenty thousand elephants. But they are all small-
tusked. The poachers killed the large-tusk elephants and their genes have vanished.”
As we drove up the hills, the forest thickened and the air cooled. We had left the open
plains and meadows. I zipped up my jacket as Calvin apologized for the bumpy road. “We
call this an African massage.”
We were cresting the hill when Calvin silently signaled the driver to come to a stop.
There, at the edge of the forest, was a dark chestnut antelope that slowly turned his head
to stare at the intruders. What a face: black with bold white markings that clearly inspired
more than a few tribal masks. It was framed by majestic horns curved backward.