by Martin, M.
“Ma’am, you’ll have to raise your seatback to its upright position.” She says in a soft voice while leaning across me to lift the window shade that lets in a blinding sunshine.
“I’m sorry, how long is the stop?”
“It’s around forty-five minutes; we just stay on the plane and then continue as soon as refueling is concluded,” her South African accent intones.
The preparation for landing feels as though you’re at the end of your journey, only to land, linger, and then begin the whole takeoff ritual again. It’s here, midway to South Africa that I want to fake an illness or stand up and scream. I know that upon takeoff I’m well past my halfway point on this journey and fast approaching the point of no return. But this is really the last time, even if I’ve tried before.
I’d managed three long months since the weekend in LA that brought us so close that I swore before both of us were irrevocably destroyed I would cut it off. I’d managed to get through the first few days, but by the end of the first week, I could do little to resist the urge of replying to his e-mails. Even in correspondence, he’s able to rapture my heart like a schoolgirl waiting on the endless love letters from a late-day postman. He’s able to lay out his daily rituals and things like running into an old university friend or disappointment in people at work that carry me away and back to him all over again. It doesn’t take long before the e-mails are no longer enough as we evolve in a texted banter that inevitably turns sexual and ends up on Skype behind a locked office or a bathroom door and staring into his eyes and willing to do anything to have just a day more with him in the flesh.
Then there is my reality that I free fall back down into at home. The daily routine of cleaning house, grocery shopping after a ten-hour day, and making sure I get those daily hours with Billy after I’m home to read a Grimm’s classic together or work on our drawing journal that takes us both away. I tell Matt he should use the time to do something for himself, whether it’s enrolling in a carpentry class or taking up karate, as he’s always wanted. All I crave is for a bit of conversation or experiences from him that include places outside of this apartment. Instead, Matt gets lost in his nightly television shows and always plans for the next day of nursery school and errands that inevitably looks exactly like the one before.
From Senegal, it’s another numbing eight hours before the plane drops below the murky cloud cover to reveal an arid bush landscape dotted by soot-blowing smokestacks rising from humble stone buildings, clustered denser and denser as we approach the city. Joburg is urban and vertical, a Western capital, at least visually. I sit and feel this steel bird turn up her chin and land her underbelly with a gentle thud along the smooth landing strip so far from home.
Staring at the landing strip, I allow my mind to wander and imagine what a married life with David might look like, a more evolved existence with a man who gets me emotionally, physically, and intellectually. However, I usually don’t get much farther than picturing myself waiting for him to come home from work or a business trip, as I realize he simply wouldn’t be satisfied with a steady, consistent, somewhat boring family life where you don’t go to glamorous dinner parties, fabulous hotels, or fashionable restaurants night after night.
The customs line in South Africa is different from other countries; an X-ray thermometer watches for those traveling with possible undetected viruses and makes even a healthy person wonder what happens if such a thing is detected. This is the point in my travels that fills me with regret; inward-pointed daggers insist that I never should have come on this trip to further this elaborate lie that’s going to end in compound heartbreak. The proud faces of the African civil servants don’t catch my inner doubt as they stamp my passport and declare me fit to enter and continue with this cycle of infidelity and moral lawlessness that despite all my will, I cannot quit.
Then the gates open to the madness that is an African airport. Legitimate drivers stand among tourist wranglers who look to make a penny off any service you’ll go along with while simply making your way through the terminal. I try to face the annoyance with a patient mind; it takes all my will to remember the cruel life so many of these locals endure among the brutal townships of JoBurg.
“Ma’am, let me help you with that,” says a young boy of no more than twenty with a metal-speckled smile. He rushes toward me and grabs the handle of my roller bag.
“Thank you, but I’m only connecting to another flight.”
“Which one? Let me help you to the gate. I will find it for you.”
A simple no is eagerly taken in these parts, and I hold a firm grip and force my way deeper into the chaos that is no more than a few steps from the customs area.
“Actually, there is my driver right there.” I gesture to a man holding a handwritten sign with my name accompanied by the words Federal Air that will take me onto Sabi Sands and Londolozi.
“Are you Catherine Klein?” he asks.
“Yes, that’s me.” The young boy yields abruptly.
“Here, let me take your bag. We have quite a walk in front of us.”
“Are you sure? I don’t mind carrying it.”
“No, please, I am happy to help. Where are you coming from, my lady?”
“I’m in from New York.”
“That’s quite a flight, isn’t it?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Have you been on safari before?” he says as the crowds yield to empty linoleum floors and the endless ramps and people movers of the outer airport.
“No, this is my first time, actually.”
“You have a wonderful treat in front of you. Londolozi is an incredible place.”
“Yes, the pictures look incredible.”
“And the Steyn family, they are very well known in South Africa, you know?”
“You mean the owners?” I reply, trying my best to keep up in my deconstructed hiking boots.
“Yes, the current owner’s grandfather was one of the most famous men in the bush,” he says with a disjointed accent. “He made very important documentaries about the lions around the family’s farm where you go.”
“Yes, I think I read a bit about that,” I reply, even though this is the first I’ve heard of the Steyns other than to coordinate the booking.
“And then Madiba, you know we call Nelson Mandela, our former president, Madiba, yes?”
“Oh, yes, yes I do.”
“Well, when he was finally released under de Klerk, he went to stay with the Steyn family in his first days outside of prison. Madiba recuperated there, breathed the free air, and watched the animals. It is at Londolozi that he dreamed of what would become of South Africa.”
I feel like there is more to know from my tender as he drops me off in a kitschy safari-themed waiting lounge where clusters of older Americans gather around CNN on the television and eat from a table spread of morning pastries. A light rain falls on the window outside as a series of propeller planes, one smaller than the other, dots the tarmac. I barely have time to get out of my seat before I hear my name called. I am rolled out of the waiting area and onto the airfields where I am led to a plane in full gusto. My hair fights the wind, and I pull out my puffy jacket and climb into the rear of the four-seat plane.
I was expecting other passengers or maybe even David to surprise me on the flight, but alas, I am alone at the rear of the plane with two pilots hidden in the forward cockpit. The the door next to me is slammed shut, and I am left with just my thoughts. The pilot looks behind and then at his co-pilot, just for a glance, as if something was said between them. He gives a thumbs-up, and the plane shimmies to a roll along the tarmac and onto the runway. I think of Matt and Billy at home, and what they’re likely doing at this early hour while I get farther lost from them this time, somewhere in sub-Saharan Africa.
The rain intensifies with the crescendo of the plane’s baritone rumble as it approaches the end of the r
unway and comes to a full stop on a patch of gravel. The distance from New York feels overwhelming as I think of entire days passing in Billy’s life without me; it’s yet another plane ride that will simply take me farther away from the life I once knew. A lull in the engine sends the plane down the airstrip as if released by a slingshot. It propels faster and faster as the horizon shoots by, and the pilot pulls on the throttle and the plane lifts into the air. A horizon of smoke plumes rising from tented villages expands until the clouds intervene and a pause of gray erupts into a clear sun-filled blue sky.
My eyes close and thoughts drift upon arriving at Londolozi. I’ll do a quick run-through of the property as well as an interview with one of the original family members before meeting up with David, who should arrive in the evening.
A mountain range outside my window seems to divide urban Africa from the wild bush as the cloud cover yields to an arid landscape of yellowish-brown shrubbery uninterrupted by man or roads or development of any kind. My eyes comb the land to see elephants or giraffes roaming through the bush, but from even this low altitude you truly just see the infinite vegetation and endless horizon.
In the distance a landing strip appears, forged from the dirt and dotted with a thatched hut where a lone truck sits. The plane circles with an abrupt tilt that offers a closer view of the airstrip and two rangers who watch our steep descent and wobbly landing. The plane circles back at the end of the runway to meet two men who sit atop a vintage Land Rover. The plane’s engine comes to an idle and the hatch door is opened. I see a thick hand with a veiny, ebony-sheen arm, followed by a youthful face with flawless skin and an equaled smile. He reaches into the plane and meets my own.
“Welcome to Londolozi,” he says with a husky voice and an African accent that vibrates high and low.
“Thank you, what an arrival,” I reply, as my hand gets lost in his. I jump from the cabin and onto the fragrant land that smells a dusty mix of sage and eucalyptus that is Africa.
“Catherine, I am Nogo, and I am your trekker during your visit at Londolozi,” he yells above the engine noise. “Over there is Duarte, he will be your game driver. If there is anything you need during your stay, please feel free to let us know, and we will take care of it for you.”
“Thank you,” I say as he strips me of my carry-on and loads it into the back of a glossy Land Rover with three rows of seating that rise in height toward the back.
“I am Duarte, lovely to meet you, Catherine.”
Duarte is a brutish South African with an unabashed accent and fluffy blond hair that he shoves to the back of his head after every other gust of wind. His face, hidden behind a scratchy beard and a glazed stare, seems to see only the land in front of him.
“Catherine, we will be taking care of you while you are here at Londolozi. It is a very special place. You will always remember it. In fact, I am a bit jealous of those who come here and get to see it for the first time all over again. Each morning, we will come to wake you up at five-thirty, and we will go on a sunrise drive before breakfast. The rest of the day is for you to spend as you choose. Then, in the late afternoon, you will meet us in the main lodge at four o’clock for an evening drive that precedes dinner.”
There’s a rushed, rugged manner to his tone as his eyes wander the horizon and into the depths of the bush where it seems his true interests lurk.
“What are you looking for?” I ask.
“Well, we saw a female leopard wandering the area on our way to see you. She is the same one we saw last week but lost track. And now it appears she is back.”
My eyes join their own looking through the dense foliage hoping to identify the cluster of spots or piercing eyes of the poetic predator. The trekker dangles off the front of the vehicle like a piece of chum perched precariously on a seat suspended off the front bumper. The vehicle stops as talk turns to a whisper, and the trekker takes a few steps before kneeling and poking at the dirt.
“He is looking for fresh tracks to see what direction she has gone,” Duarte whispers before talking into a radio to share the details of the find.
Nogo points into the bush as he returns to his seat and grips his rifle secured at his side. The truck turns off the road and into thick shrubbery as the wheels that devour each tree and stump make a crackling sound before finding our way to smoother terrain.
“There, there,” the trekker says to Duarte as the vehicle changes direction and the lone leopardess makes her way across the grassy savannah like a displaced phantom in search of home. The truck inches closer, and then he turns off the engine as we move to a silent stop. The leopardess moves uninterrupted on a path that will seemingly collide with us. She stares us down with her magnetic eyes that don’t stray from the horizon. She only occasionally takes in a passing sound of baboons that play in the branches above.
“Does she not see us?” I ask in slight discomfort, worrying of our position. Sometimes guys like this will try to impress a visiting journalist.
“She knows we are here, but she does not associate us with anything more than a rock or tree.”
Then she vanishes under the eye line of the truck. Nogo grips his rifle, and Duarte moves back to give me a better view as the leopardess makes her pass by only inches from my foot that sits unprotected in the open vehicle. I can hear her breath as she passes, unbothered by her solitude or her admirers who absorb the godly sight without a single camera or a word as our eyes meet. Her magnificent coat seems close enough to touch as she comes and goes without changing in pace or purpose.
“Not bad for the first ten minutes,” Duarte says in a whispered voice. He starts the truck again and follows the leopard.
My adrenaline has made me forget my jet lag and even seeing David again. The bush makes everything in that world seem so inconsequential and far away.
“We will just follow her a little more to see where she is going. There is a pride of lionesses nearby, and it is very peculiar that she would travel in that direction.”
The leopardess continues uninterrupted on her singular journey, a focus unyielding as if where she is going has long come into view and the miles between are conquered with each enduring step. She is otherworldly; her luminescent coat looks almost oily to the touch as it reflects the African sun. The truck trails a few feet behind with the wake of a bulldozer taking down small trees and shrubs that come between us as the leopardess weaves her way through the brush in near silence with an unapologetic elegance.
“So we need to get you back to camp in order to meet up with Tamaryn and get you sorted before the evening game drive,” Duarte says.
“No worries, but that was truly incredible,” I say as my leopardess vanishes from view into the thick brush and beyond.
“Please remember to wear warm clothes. Don’t let this sun fool you; African winter is felt loud and clear come sundown,” Duarte warns. “Will you be alone for the evening?”
“Actually, I’m meeting up with a friend who should be arriving later this afternoon,” I reply, uncomfortable using words like boyfriend in regards to David.
“Well, we haven’t had word of any incoming flights, but I will double check for you,” Duarte continues. “If it’s just the two of you this evening, we can seek the game as you and your mate wish.”
Duarte hollers over the crackling sound of his radio to announce our arrival as ten minutes out as the downshifted engine collides with the smoother gravel road leading into Londolozi.
On the road, I see animals I don’t even know the names of living in this sublime utopia. A group of warthogs grunts across the dry terrain, and in the background, a lone giant elephant tears limbs off a eucalyptus tree.
Upon approach to the camp, a circular dirt driveway is lined with two men standing with trays as the vehicle comes to a stop. A tall, stately woman with an air beyond her young age grabs the handrail.
“Catherine, alas, you’re here. It’s so
nice to welcome you to Londolozi.”
A flurry of staff rushes the vehicle as they hoist my bags over the metal sides, into the air, and onto a nearby ramp to avoid getting dirty. Her voice becomes softer as the motor stops.
“I am Tamaryn Steyn,” she says, extending her arm as we exchange a genteel shake. My own hand is still damp from the welcome towel as an attendant offers me a Pimm’s cup.
As I walk behind Tamaryn, the welcome chitchat is in full gusto. She asks me about my trip and my first game drive; I reply with curiosity as to the weather and game viewing ahead. My eyes, however, are transfixed on Tree Camp that will be my home. One of the reserve’s luxurious lodges impresses my already wide eyes. The entrance of carved raw stone supports a towering thatched canopy suspended among hundred-year-old trees conjoined by a cantilevered wooden terrace.
A sprawling living room open on all sides is exposed to all the elements of the African wild, both good and bad. The room is clothed in a glamorous mix of exotic animal print rugs and zebra fabrics muted by pristine white sofas and chocolate leather club chairs dotted in whimsical pillows, and tables clustered with stone bowls filled with curiosities that lure my eyes closer. Tamaryn leads me to a small reception desk that feels like her own where formalities of safari check-in include signing away any responsibility should things go bleak, agreeing not to walk around after dark, and apparently taking the flirtation of the game drivers with a grain of salt.
As Tamaryn continues to explain nuances of communal meals, bush yoga, and daily laundry service during my three-day stay, all I can think about is when that manly silhouette who inhabits my deepest desire is going to walk up that stairway and make this incredible place even more special. Londolozi isn’t the type of place the heart should be left alone; the generational glamour is truly of another time and exudes a romance I wasn’t expecting, complete with roaring fireplaces and a panorama of trees that frame families of elephants playing along the horizon.