More Safari Memories

The Lord of Flies 

Many precautions were taken before we left on safari. For instance, my father set up operations in his garage. Various plastic hangers hung from the ceiling with pants, socks and shirts dangling from them. With a spray bottle that held a concoction of water and bug repellent detergent, he spritzed all these items so they would be sufficiently coated and we would be effectively shielded from the various mosquitos and other insects found in the Tanzanian wilderness. Numerous tubes of insect repellent lotion found their way into all our luggage and we all dutifully swallowed our malaria pills. But nothing, apparently, can disarm the tsetse fly. The tsetse fly is a beastly thing. Bug spray won't thwart it and neither will clothes. The flies, which look like shiny mutant house flies, will whiz through all the barriers to attack with stinging bites, leaving their victims with a rash of red bumps. These bumps can itch intensely and all you want to do is rake your nails over them to relieve that irritation only you can't because it will worsen that nagging itch. The only effective weapon against these beasts, it seems, are fly swatters. Our guide had two in his vehicle and we never needed them until arriving in the Serengeti. If the jeep was stopped, the tsetse flies would invade it. The flies, looking like black dots, would flit and flounce through the open top of the jeep; sometimes angrily buzzing and pinging against the car windows. Yielding those two swatters like fencing swords my mother and I would duel with those zinging specks. All you could hear was plastic smacking wildly. FLIP! PHALT! FLAP! My mother was better as this then I was, I just blindly beat every surface in my sight with the swatter. My mom had more focus. It didn't matter where the fly landed; it could settle on the seat or on one of us and she would execute a driven, deadly smack. My father had another idea. He pulled down his hat, pushed his sunglasses securely around his ears and worked his neck gator up over his entire face. He sat with his arms crossed; a man fully confident that his method was the best. Turns out my father was right. Both my parents got it right; they didn't get a mark on them. Me, on the other hand, fought with the tsetse fly and lost.

Feeling Pride As We Glide On A Hot Air Balloon Ride 

The day started at 4 a.m. We meet a driver who charged at full speed down dirt paths despite the fact the everything was swallowed up in blackness. In car's headlights everything was in white silhouette. The world looked ghostly. We came to a clearing where a giant green and white striped hot air balloon was being inflated. You could hear the loud THRUSH sounds of a flame and the rustling noise of fabric. The black of night was giving way to an early morning pearl grey and everyone was busy. The basket of the hot air balloon lay tipped to one side. It looked like a giant whicker picnic basket. The balloon pilot, in an official and very professional looking button-down shirt and tie, gave us all instructions for getting into the basket to begin our sunrise ride. He told us firmly that we were to climb in, sit down and hold ourselves upright. Do not, we were sternly told, lean back. My father said it was if we were astronauts about to launch into space. And we did launch off into the air. But it was so smooth and quiet and gentle that it felt as if nothing had happen at all. But the ground and trees and animals suddenly became smaller and smaller while the Serengeti plains swelled in size. Its edges stretched and lengthened in all directions. The sun became a fiery orange glowing ball. The pilot displayed the elegance and coordination of an acrobat. He was constantly pulling and tugging  on different cords, opening and closing the flame. We could hear wilder beast performing a chorus of honking grunts and groans. An elephant caught sight of our green and white stripped floating machine  and would scamper away, then pause and turn to us, raise its trunk in curiosity and then scamper away again. We sailed higher and it became quiet. There was no screaming wind or even a breeze. Then we floated down, climbed out of the basket and ate a champagne breakfast. My parents and I agree that hot air balloon was a real highlight of the trip. To say you watched the sun rise from a basket of a hot air balloon while soaring over the plains of Tanzania is a real treat. You can't help but to feel proud.

Homecoming

Traveling is great because you can flee home. Make your escape and disappear. But eventually the pang for home appears and you are reminded of why you love it so much. When our trip was done and we were killing time before the plane left to go to U.S.  I was anxious to get back. I was ready to wear all my clothes colored something other than the safari-appropriate khaki tan, olive green and charcoal grey. I was ready to drink water from the tap and slipped back into being a journalist. Also, I missed my dog. Sure, roll your eyes, but at my house it is just Milo and me. So I was eager for our reunion.  I arrived at  the kennel too early to pick him up and ended up sitting my car, waiting and staring at the clock. The door was finally opened and Milo scrambled out. He danced around me and flopped on his back, wiggling his legs in the air. They gave me a report card for Milo's stay and as silly as it seems I was so proud to see he got an A+. We drove home, walked through the front door together and just like that my homecoming was complete.