Free Heart of Africa by Loren Lockner

the comfortable newness of Mopani, but nonetheless had its own special charm. It was sufficiently large, with occasional large palm trees mixed with mopanes sporadically dotting the camp. Even now, during the heart of winter, amazing rose and ivory lilies still bloomed. My small two-bed bungalow was comfortable and modern enough. Without a word, our eyes meeting across the bed, we pushed the two twins together. Here, like at Mopani and Letaba, I scribbled down every different tree, animal, and bird I was fortunate enough to spy inside the small notebook Peter had provided for me.
    Within all three camps bright glossy starlings, shining metallic blue and possessing strange, orange-red eyes, jumped from branch to branch. Peter took time to identify for me some birds called by the strange name of brubru, and I marveled at the incredible long-tailed shrikes who called out peeleeo as they dipped through the thornveld, long wispy tails dangling three full body lengths below them. As always, yellow and red hornbills plagued the camp, sitting haughtily in the trees to glare evilly at us.
    My most amazing find was a beautiful little bird called the paradise flycatcher. Its rusty orange tail dangled an extraordinarily two body lengths, and the little fellow sported a bright blue bill. I stalked it for a good fifteen minutes, aiming for the perfect shot, while it eyed me like a model does the camera. Peter lounged on the cement porch, a Castle beer in hand, grinning benevolently at my antics. I stepped up on the porch and sank down beside him.
    “Tell me more about your family. I only know about your sister Elizabeth and your crazy skydiving cousin Miles.”
    He draped his arm over my shoulder in his customary fashion and took a sip of his nearly-warm beer.
    “Both my parents are gone now. Dad was a farmer in the north of Zimbabwe. During the ‘change of power’ our farm was overrun by ex-military cronies under Mugabe. Mum had been a teacher at the local school, and I think it was her history of unrestrained kindness to her students that saved us. Many farmers were killed during that time, but we were spared. The soldiers just sorta ‘squatted’ on our plot for a couple weeks and then politely came to the door one day and ordered us to go. We were lucky—their guns were pointed downwards. My dad was an ex-missionary who’d always been fair to our workers and Mum—Mum was a saint. So we packed up, my sister nine and me eleven, headed for the bank to withdraw our devaluing money, and slipped across the border into Zambia. We lived there for a while, but Dad never recovered. He had put his heart and soul into that farm, and with it gone, he just couldn’t start over.”
    “I’m so sorry, Peter.”
    A lovely gray bird with a long, squared-off tail emitted an eerie cry. Peter pointed at it grimly.
    “See that bird perched in the mopane tree whose cry resembles the English words ‘go away, go away’? The Shona believe that the grey lourie is evil. All I know is that she rested upon our roof the day my father’s farm was overrun and ordered us to ‘go away, go away.’ And so we left Zimbabwe, our home. I’ve never been much fond of louries since.”
    In an effort to lighten his dark mood, I asked, “What did your family do in Zambia?”
    “Dad worked at the tourist bureau and Mum got a job at the local school. Dad made sure I accompanied him on all our weekend forays into the bush, and taught me everything he knew. Dad maintained such a reverence for life—human or wild—and I was about 14, just before he died, when I decided I desired to be a game guide or park ranger. I traipsed off to South Africa four years later where my cousin Miles had moved and attended Wits, learning everything I could. I acquired a dual degree in Environmental Science and African languages, being fluent in both Shona and Zulu. My sis, Elizabeth, moved first to Namibia, thinking to settle there before transferring down to Stellenbosch. She had a