17 elephants. Our week began with 17 elephants making their way through an open plain in Torra conservancy. Constansia, a truly wonderful Torra game guard, sat next to me on the game seat and pointed excitedly. “Elephants, elephants!” Her index finger directed me towards a small city of black dots in the distance. “At least I think…” I doubted the possibility of elephants—to think, so many of them—and deemed the dots cattle, turning my attention instead to a group of Mopane trees. But a little farther along our track and there was no denying the wrinkly gray ears and long, squirming trunks that led them across the dusty ground. We slowed to watch as the elephants hurried through the open space, vulnerable as they were to sun and tourists. We snapped pictures and cooed over an infant elephant that could not have been over a week old, yet the elephants did not make even the smallest acknowledgement of our presence. They only hustled along, and though their faces showed no sign of stress or unease, I couldn’t help but liken them to the grave business people that pour out of my hometown’s commuter train every night. Both rush to their next destination, be it another train, or a shady riverbed, or home, eventually reaching their ultimate goal of safety and comfort. After a time, we veered right, accelerated, and passed the herd, continuing on our game count.
Time spent in Torra finishing up conservancy monitoring work
Tuesday, after returning to Wereldsend, we learned about the bombing of the Boston marathon. All being from the New England area, we of course have ties to Boston. We sat quietly around the camp fire as each of us waited to use the satellite phone. Besides the occasional “I just can’t believe it” or “I don’t understand,” we didn’t say much as we stared into the flames. A sense of hopelessness comes with being so far away at a time like that. How can things like bombs exist while we’re here in Namibia, where oryx and springbok are our only neighbors? Thankfully, all of our Boston ties were safe. Our camp fire vigil continued, though, as we thought about those not so fortunate.
The next night, we again sat around the camp fire. This time, we discussed the ebb and flow of ongoing land disputes between Etosha National Park and the native Namibians that once inhabited the area. The sun had set long ago, and the usual ocean of stars had replaced the red and purples of sun down. As Mike made a point about the benefits of state owned and protected land, a shooting star took off somewhere above his head. I’ve become somewhat accustomed to shooting stars here, and didn’t think much of it until it had moved through a quarter of the sky and still had not burned out. At that point, we were all staring at it. I dumbly repeated oh my…oh my… oh my… and Vehi stood as we watched the star travel from one side of sky to the other. The star wasn’t big, but it was bright enough to leave a long trail of white behind it as it went. It was truly one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen in my life. When it reached the other horizon, it disappeared and Vehi said with confidence “Something is going to happen.” We held our breath and waited—for a bomb explosion? Plane crash? Earth-destroying meteor impact?—but there was nothing. It really was just a star, and we haven’t heard any news since to indicate otherwise.
Pictures from our time spent at Wereldsend, after our Torra excursion and before continuing to Palmwag
The later part of the week was spent at Save the Rhino Trust camp in Palmwag. This is a familiar site to us, and we were greeted once again by the decaying rhino head strapped to a tree right next to the camp. We celebrated the fact that the rhino head didn’t smell quite so deathly this time around, and enjoyed the simple pleasure of cool drinks at the nearby Palmwag lodge. Being in a familiar place was comforting to us all, and I was sad to leave. It’s a strange thing, going to a place and becoming so close with it and then leaving, knowing full well that you will probably never come back again in your life time. We do a lot of that here, and already we’re thinking about the biggest “leaving” of all, when we head out of this beautiful place and, like the elephants, run off home to our comfort and safety.