The Way of Wanderlust

by Don George

  “During the Great Migration a lot of wildebeest die this way,” Lewela says. “Either they drown or they get separated from the herd and become easy prey. The lions wait by the rivers like they’re at a buffet.”

  As he speaks, the next wildebeest in line hesitates, confused, then looks around, snorts and gallops back onto the land he’d just left. The one behind him stands still for a second, then belligerently wheels around and follows him back. Soon the entire line of wildebeest and zebra has beaten a retreat onto land, and the animals graze and gaze placidly, now on both sides of the water, as if nothing has happened.

  In the foreground a flock of long-beaked, white-winged great white pelicans erupts as one into the sky, swerving over the sweeping brown-golden grass-plains and toward the line of hazy green-purple hills beyond. Acacia trees thrust their thorny branches into the sky, and giraffe, elephant, and Cape buffalo materialize in the distance. The smell of fresh dung carries on the breeze, mixing with the dry dusty earthy smell of the land. And Kilimanjaro broods over it all, massing in the clouds.

  Africa!

  We continue our game drive to Tortilis Tented Camp. When I had been preparing for this trip, the words “tented camp” had conjured visions of summer family camping trips, lightweight tents pitched by the campfire, and freeze-dried meals cooked on camp stoves. So I am more than a little nonplussed—and delighted—when we pull up to the gracious, thatch-roofed main building at Tortilis and I am taken to my luxurious tented room. This is definitely not your typical summer family camp-trip site. . . .

  Now it’s 3:15 and I’m sitting on my verandah, looking out on the snow-topped crown of Kilimanjaro—well, I would be, if the mountain would deign to appear—and the dry swaying grass of the savannah. A mid-afternoon torpor has settled over the scene. A slight breeze barely stirs the branches of the Acacia tortilis trees that tower around my tent, casting long shadows over a dense tangle of green, insect-loud vegetation. The most energetic beings are the buzzing flies and the calling birds. There’s an amazing, sweet cacophony of bird calls—one that has a sandpapery grate to it, others high branch-strung tweets, others that woo-woo-woo…. To the east of cloud-massed Kilimanjaro, rain sheets down in the distance.

  A whiff of wetness is borne on the breeze, and the insects shrill with even greater intensity.

  I look around and shake my head: It’s almost impossible to believe that this is just our first day in the bush. Who knows what wonders await?

  Part Three: Under the Elephant’s Spell

  On our second day in the bush, as dawn is just beginning to light the world outside my tented room, I hear a shuffle of feet and then “Jambo! Your tea, sir.” One of the Maasai staffers at Tortilis Camp places a tray with a pitcher of tea, heated milk, sugar, a china cup and saucer, a spoon, and two biscuits on my verandah. I throw on my clothes, down a quick cup of tea, and hustle up to the main lodge, where our safari van awaits.

  Lewela, our safari director, greets us with a broad smile. “Are you ready to see some wildlife?”

  We hop into the van and set out as the rising sun starts to streak the sky. Bouncing on dirt tracks through the dry brown savannah, we soon spot a herd of elephants in the distance. As we approach, the classic Amboseli photo composes itself in my mind: a line of huge gray elephants standing in the foreground among swaying, lush green elephant grass, with snow-crowned Mount Kilimanjaro rising massive and majestic in the background.

  All the elements are there, except one—the lower flanks of Kilimanjaro are visible, but the top remains tantalizingly hidden within a dense gray camouflage of clouds.

  “The elephants are probably walking toward a waterhole for their own version of morning tea,” Lewela says. Their path parallels the dirt road we’re on, and we’re able to drive alongside them for about ten minutes. Then the lead elephant veers to the right, directly onto our road. We stop and watch in awe as a parade of elephants lumbers unconcernedly in front of us, less than 15 feet from our van.

  There are twelve in all, ranging from mature adults nearly twice the size of our van, with two-foot-long tusks, to babies about as tall as a bicycle. They plod slowly, deliberately, delicately across, a surprising combination of girth and grace, then plunge unhesitatingly into the dense tangle of trees and brush on the other side of the road. Immediately the air rings with the sound of tearing and scraping as they break and uproot their breakfast, grabbing great trunksful of branches and bushes and curling them into their mouths, where they methodically chew them.

  “In fact,” Lewela says, watching the elephants feast, “elephants spend about three-fourths of their lives eating. Adult elephants generally eat between 200 and 400 pounds of vegetation a day. About 70 percent of their diet is grass; the rest is leaves, fruit, branches, roots, and bark. As you can see, the elephants grab the food with their trunks and stuff it into their mouths; then they grind the food down with their molar teeth. They use these teeth so much that in its lifetime, an elephant will grow six sets of molars.”

  Suddenly Lewela pauses. The next to last elephant in the road-crossing parade has stopped, and is now turning toward us. Ears extended, tusks pointing our way, eyes staring straight at us, he ponderously maneuvers his tree-sized legs so that he faces us squarely.

  “Don’t worry,” Lewela whispers, “he’s just curious about us. He’s checking us out.”

  For an electrifying moment, we stare at each other, and rather than fear, I find myself falling under the spell of the elephant. There’s something so gracious, dignified, and wise about him. I know these are personifications and projections, but still—look at him! His big round eyes curiously, peacefully staring, his Dumbo ears ever so gently flapping, his foot-long tusks just starting to curl, his tail swishing, he’s a big gray embodiment of curiosity and self-assurance combined. We hold our breaths in taut suspension, and I feel a kind of primordial gut-tug, like some spirit-understanding is leaping from me to the elephant and from the elephant to me. An inexplicable, irrefutable connection is fused, then the enormous tree-legs start to slowly turn, heroically bearing that wrinkled gray bulk, and the elephant slowly shifts course, heavy footstep by heavy footstep, and ambles off into the brush.

  Elephants are a good example of the complexities of conservation in Africa. “They are enormously destructive,” says Lewela. “Look at how much they eat! If they’re confined to an area, they can strip it of its trees and other vegetation. They can even transform a wooded area into a grassland. But they also open up dense forests so that all kinds of animals and plant life can thrive there. They have a role in the cycle. And of course they’re good for tourism, too. But as local people want more and more land for their livestock and farms, the elephant’s territory gets smaller and smaller. It’s a very complicated situation.”

  We drive on and see our first hippopotamus, a brown blur slowly stepping through the bush. “He must have been out late partying and now he’s headed back to the swamp,” says Lewela.

  Then we see elegant, impossibly elongated giraffes nibbling on tree-top leaves, and two tawny, big-maned lion brothers walking magisterially through the elephant grass. We come upon a herd of big-nosed, crinkly-skinned Cape buffalo—“a face only a mother could love,” Jennifer says—and wildebeest and zebras placidly grazing. Our drive climaxes with a rare view of two lions mating in the grass. (We share this sight with a van full of peach-skinned Scandinavian teenagers; one especially cherub-faced girl turns to us breathlessly, flashes a thumbs-up, and exclaims, “Lion sex!”)

  The wonders continue. But that night, as we review the day over a sumptuous meal on the Tortilis dining verandah, it’s the elephant—full with a wisdom that seems to stretch through centuries—that stands, stolid and wide-eyed, in my mind.

  Part Four: Kenya Connections

  It’s 10:40 p.m. on our second night at the Mount Kenya Safari Club. I’m sitting on my verandah, staring into the light-less night and up at the star-spattered sky, more full of stars—in this high-alt
itude African blackness—than I have ever seen before.

  Yesterday morning we rose early and drove back to the Amboseli airstrip, where we caught a flight to Nairobi. In Nairobi we transferred planes and flew north to Nanyuki, gateway to Mount Kenya National Park and the Mount Kenya Safari Club.

  The Safari Club is a storied place, founded by the late actor William Holden in 1959. Sir Winston Churchill and Lord Mountbatten were members, and guests have included Clark Gable, John Wayne, Ernest Hemingway, Robert Redford, Sean Connery, and Catherine Deneuve. The lush, rambling lawns and gracious buildings lend it a colonial atmosphere, and you still half-expect to see Hemingway and Holden drinking port in the plush sitting room.

  Our stay here is something of a lull in the itinerary. After the bouncing and jouncing of our Amboseli game drives, it has been rejuvenating to take a leisurely dip in the pool, amble along the fairways of the deserted golf course, and sit on the verandah reading, pausing now and again to gaze at the snow-capped crag of Mount Kenya.

  We did make one relatively sedate game drive today at nearby Sweetwaters Game Reserve, where we spotted two massive white rhinoceros. “The rhinoceros is one animal we are always careful to stay well away from,” Lewela said. “They have excellent senses of smell and hearing, but their eyesight is extremely poor, so they will charge almost anything that gets too close and poses a threat.” As he talked, they walked slowly through the grass and toward our vehicle. We waited, watching, wondering exactly when “close” becomes “too close.” Then, when they were about twenty feet away, they veered to the right and walked slowly, placidly, over the track we’d driven in on.

  One fundamental factor that has set the trip apart has been Lewela, our safari director. He has proved to be an astonishing fount of information on just about everything, from the intricacies of the wildlife, plant life, and bird life to the history and political situations of Kenya, surrounding countries, and the larger world outside them. He is an incredible encyclopedia—and best of all, a human encyclopedia, which gives us a human connection to the countries and the cultures that we just wouldn’t have if we were traveling on our own. In addition to all that knowledge, Lewela is invariably smiling, efficient, and sensitive to the idiosyncrasies of the group; it’s a privilege to be able to see Kenya and learn about Africa with him.

  At dinner tonight, talking with Benjie, Jennifer, Jill, and Lewela—and fueled by four truly splendid gin and tonics—the other thing I re-realized is how travel makes the world local. We were talking about Somali politics and the Somali warlords, and how chaotic the situation in the country is now. I knew this vaguely from headlines I’d seen in the States, but being here on the ground in Kenya, which has a long border with Somalia, brings that situation so much more vividly to life, gives it a personal presence and connection that it wouldn’t have for me otherwise.

  And that’s one of the great gifts of travel: It localizes the world, so that wherever you are becomes of intense interest and palpable presence by your being there. For us, Uganda, Somalia, Tanzania, Africa as a whole, have suddenly taken on a vivid, vibrant reality. Just like the giraffes, lions, and elephants we’ve encountered on this trip, they’re a part of our world now, with a presence and importance they never otherwise would have. This is how travel makes world citizens of us all.

  I know I won’t come away from this trip understanding Kenya’s complicated, rich history in depth, just as I won’t understand in any depth all of the wildlife we see. But I also know that when I leave, they will be a part of me.

  Part Five: Cheetah Time on the Mara Plains

  Just as we were finishing breakfast this morning in Masai Mara National Reserve, Sammy our driver and Lewela arrived in our van. Perfect timing.

  We set off on a game drive. During the course of the drive we saw big brooding Cape buffalo, mud-caked elephants, treetop-munching giraffes, and a young hyena emerging from the hole that led to its underground home. But the wildlife highlight of the day occurred about a half hour into the drive, when Sammy spotted a yellow flash in the grasses to our left. He crept closer, slowly and steadily, until a mother cheetah and her two children suddenly emerged into a wide area of lower grass. What a sight! There was something breathtakingly sleek and elegant in the way they walked, the lean rippling lines in their flanks, the sloping spotted back, the slim, quick, powerful legs. Speed personified—or rather, cheetahfied.

  We followed them for a while. They were scouring the plains for their breakfast. They would walk slowly, majestically, for a few paces, then lift their heads to smell the wind and look at the plains. At one point they froze—a herd of Thomson’s gazelles was grazing in the near distance, and a couple who weren’t paying attention seemed to have strayed from the others.

  Suddenly the mother cheetah went into stealth stalking mode, sinking into the grass so that she virtually disappeared, slinking forward long taut leg-stretch by stretch. We could make her out now and again, low to the ground, her belly almost touching the soil, sliding ever closer to the gazelles. The gazelle closest to the cheetah looked up and around, ears twitching; the breeze was blowing toward the cheetah. Closer. The gazelle went back to its grazing, and was soon enrapt again in the grass. Closer. My throat was dry; my palms were wet. Closer.

  Then the air went electric. In a bright yellow blur the cheetah leaped up and pounced toward the nearest gazelle, which shot off as soon as she noticed the spotted blur. The gazelle vaulted through the grass and the cheetah gave chase, bounding forward in time to the gazelle’s leaps. The chase continued for twenty seconds that seemed like an eternity, then the gazelle suddenly veered to the left and leaped into a waterhole, high-stepped through the water and scampered out onto the other side. The cheetah bounded into the water but was slowed by it and stopped in the middle of the waterhole, abruptly giving up the chase. The gazelle bolted on to the safety of the herd.

  We resumed breathing, and continued to follow the cheetah, who had returned to her two cubs. Would they find breakfast? Who was the good guy and the bad guy in this drama? Neither, of course. On some gut level I felt simultaneously relieved and disappointed. Life in the wild.

  The cheetahs strode to the shade of a tree, and before long the two cubs had climbed up into its branches. Their mother continued to search the plains. Was there a kind of desperation in her manner or was it just my projection? Her children were hungry; there must be breakfast out there somewhere. She spotted another herd of gazelles and began to crawl toward them. We followed slowly behind. She neared them, heading toward one loner who was lingering over a patch of grass while his mates had nervously scattered away.

  Suddenly a couple of bush bird beauties—the regal crested crane, the national bird of Uganda, adorned with a flamboyant golden crown—flew into the air and settled near the gazelle, where they began to emit a distinctive cry.

  “Look at that!” Lewela said. “See how the prey work together? The birds are trying to warn the gazelle that the cheetah is approaching. We see this often here—the prey work together to keep each other safe.”

  Alerted by the birds’ cries, the gazelle leaped away to re-join his herd.

  “I bet that cheetah would like to get her paws on those birds right now,” Jennifer said.

  Now it is 10:00 p.m. After dinner I was escorted by a gun-bearing guide along the pathway back to my tented camp. Happily, no buffalos or other inordinately scary things appeared in the arc of his light. For a moment on that dark path, though, I had been the gazelle—and now that I am back safe in my tented camp, I feel simultaneously relieved and, in an odd way, disappointed.

  Life goes on, and so, I now understand, will this safari, long after we have left, in the savannah of my soul: Africa has gotten under my skin.

  Making Roof Tiles in Peru

  The encounter described in this essay took place on the same trip during which I visited Machu Picchu. I especially love this experience because it was such a grounding counterpart to Machu Picchu. Making roof tile
s—sinking my hands into wet clay, molding it, then leaving it to bake in the sun, knowing that in a few days it would be part of a villager’s home, protecting it from the wind and rain—forged a deeply moving, visceral connection to the people and the land. I wrote this story for the blog of Geographic Expeditions, the same company that took me to Pakistan along the Karakoram Highway in the 1980s; I have been editing and writing for the GeoEx blog, which I re-named (of course) Wanderlust, since 2007.

  ON MY FIRST VISIT TO PERU, I spent an expanding and enlightening week wandering through the Sacred Valley. The highlights were almost too numerous to mention—the resonant ruins of Machu Picchu, of course, plus other soul-stirring sites such as Ollantaytambo, Moray, Pisaq, Tipon, and Pikillacta; the amazingly varied and delicious cuisine; the uniformly hospitable people; the intricate textiles, transporting music, and other cultural and artistic riches; ancient and cosmopolitan Cusco.

  But one completely unexpected highlight was a chance to experience firsthand—literally—the fine art of making roof tiles.

  On the next to last day of my journey, after exploring as far as Racchi, halfway to Lake Titicaca, we were returning along the road to Cusco. On the way we approached a site I had expressed interest in earlier in the day—a roadside area where a team of workers was making roof tiles; that morning we had seen the tiles arranged in semi-circular columns by the side of the road.

  Throughout the Sacred Valley I had been expressing admiration for the mud-brick and roof-tile houses that we saw everywhere, and as we passed the site, my guide Manuel turned to me, “Do you want to see how roof tiles are made?”

  Of course, I said.