Serengeti
by Terri McFadden
When we arrived on the Serengeti,
it struck me that the word fit what my high school poetry teacher termed onomatopoeia – the formation of words in
imitation of natural sounds. It is the most serene place I’ve ever visited – at
least at first view. The sound of the wind through the grass is nearly the only
noise. Enormous animals, elephants, giraffes, leopards and lions move almost silently
through the landscape. Even the herds of wildebeest and zebras chomp silently,
their hooves only thundering when frightened by a movement of the occasional
predator.
On our visit there in 2016 we were
lucky enough to witness the great spring migration of animals through Tanzania.
It wasn’t quite what I expected. Certainly, there were large numbers of animals
all over the enormous plain, but they didn’t seem to be migrating. Not a
purposeful, determined movement, but instead there was a slow and gradual drift
of the mixed herds as they ate and walked, ate and walked. It was fascinating
to see all these different types of herbivores mingled together. At night, we
were told, they would sort themselves into herds of their fellows – zebras with
zebras, wildebeest with wildebeest, but in the daytime, this wasn’t so. A
peaceable kingdom – at least for the lucky ones.
For two nights, we stayed at a
safari camp, many miles into the national park. We were greeted by a staff
member with glasses of orange juice, refreshing after the bouncing, dusty ride.
An open fire and a glass of wine before dinner while watching the sun set were
memorable, as was the best dinner we had in Africa (except at our daughter’s
house!), several delicious courses all cooked on a two-burner hotplate.
Afterward we were escorted to our tents by the staff and warned not to leave
them; night time on the Serengeti is a dangerous place. Not so serene when the
sun goes down. In fact, we were given whistles to blow in case of an emergency
and told more than once not to leave our tents. A staff person would come if
needed, but we were told not to whistle for anything but a serious situation,
as the savanah is dangerous for them as well.
After a
short peek at the most astounding sky of stars that I’ve ever seen, we entered
our tent. There were trillions of lights in that African sky and I could have
gazed for hours, but I was too frightened by the warnings about dangerous
animals. It was my biggest disappointment of the trip, not watching that sky.
Obediently we heeded our guides and retired to our king-size bed. The tent had
a shower and toilet, so we were safe for the night. The profound silence and
the long day of travel made it easy to fall asleep.
A few
hours later I was awakened by a loud scratching noise at the back of the tent
near the bucket shower. I lay there for quite a while, my husband sleeping
peacefully beside me. The scratching continued. I’m not a normally a nervous
person, but I started worrying. Naturally, I woke Ed. He heard it too, but
couldn’t think what to do and reassured me that the canvas was thick and urged
me to go back to sleep. Ignoring him, I finally leapt out of bed and dashed to
the heavy-duty zippers of the toilet and shower areas. Frantically, I pulled
them down, reasoning (sort of) that the critter would have to scratch through
two layers of heavy canvas to get at us.
Neither
of us slept for a long time. Finally, I suggested we blow the whistle and reluctantly
he agreed. I placed it in my mouth and blew…and nothing. The whistle sounded,
but no one came, no one shouted to ask what was wrong. I didn’t have the nerve
to do it again, so we took Ed’s advice and finally fell asleep again. By this
time too tired to mind the scratching.
In the
morning, I checked the back of the tent and there was no evidence of an animal
– at least to my uneducated eyes. No scratch marks on the tent, no scat. The
soil was scuffed, but I couldn’t see any footprints. The head of the safari
company looked at us uncomprehendingly and shrugged – no idea what it could
have been. I was too embarrassed to mention the night-time whistle.
The great
undulating plains of Africa greeted us again that morning, with a pink sunrise
and indigo blue sky. On our journey that day we watched a lioness stalking a
zebra, which she missed, scattering the herd. We saw a family of cheetahs
sitting on a termite hill scanning the horizon for a meal. A sleepy (sated?) hyena
lay in the shade of an acacia tree, mouth open, showing her teeth and panting
in the heat.
Not far
from the great park’s entrance our driver and guide stopped the truck and
pointed. He’d spotted two young cheetahs making their gliding way to what
looked like a little family of wildebeests – mother, father and young calf.
There was no sign of the herd. In fact, no sign of any other animals at all.
The three of them had somehow drifted away while grazing, and now they were
alone and hunted.
We
watched, holding our breath, not sure if we should root for the grazers or the
cats. It didn’t take long. In silence, the beautiful cheetahs circled the prey,
one in one direction the other opposite. The wildebeests finally sensed their
peril and bolted. In a flash, the cheetahs attacked. It is hard, even when you
see it, to believe flesh and blood and muscle can move that fast; the two
acting as one.
The calf was down. The parents
stopped running and turned to watch for a moment. And then, with no sound, they
turned and trotted off.
True serenity, is I think, an
illusion. In this life, we have moments of peace, times of silence, but mostly
like the great Serengeti the tumult is there, waiting. And, like the darkness
and the light, the tumult will return. Perhaps the only remedy is to sometimes take
a chance and gaze on the stars. They are there, waiting.
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