Free Heart of Africa by Loren Lockner Page B

“Another great butt shot,” observed Peter before I punched him. We had made a credible start, managing to get out of bed at 5:45 to head for the gate. It was already turning warm. I had noticed the temperature shift after leaving Mopani camp. It was hotter and more humid this far north; consequently I removed my gray sweatshirt and stuffed it into my knapsack, shoving the over-packed bag onto the back seat.
    We passed through sandstone hills and mopane plains, Peter noting that while many of the trees were still tinted green this late August, others appeared on the verge of death, the grass surrounding their gray tree trunks brown and short under the wide turquoise bowl of sky stretching overhead. Peter stated it hadn’t rained in a good sixteen weeks and the grass had subsequently withered, turning a pale dusty brown.
    We crawled at a mere twenty kilometers an hour though the signs permitted fifty, pausing for nearly every bird, bug, and beast. My first real spotting was of a cluster of yellow hornbills picking at a huge pile of dung on the main road. As we paused to watch them, Peter pointed to a large, dark beetle rolling a hefty glob of dung, three times his size, across the road. Occasionally overwhelmed, he twice flipped over the top of the ball. The stalwart dung beetle remained undaunted, keeping to his stinky but apparently necessary mission.
    Flies swirled around the huge dung pile. Judging from the clod’s giant proportions, it could only have originated from an elephant. The droppings consisted of coarse, undigested bits of twigs and grass, and its freshness filling me with hope that we’d soon run into the large herbivore. As Peter slowly cruised the vacant dirt road, a lovely bird sat perched upon the dead branches of a lightning-struck tree. Its throat was a deep baby-pink; its soft breast resembled a vest of lovely purple encased by turquoise wings. Bright dark eyes and a stately head mistrusted us on sight, and the timid bird flitted away without a sound.
    “That’s the photogenic lilac-breasted roller, a common subject of nearly every South African nature calendar,” said Peter.
    “I don’t want to buy the calendar. I just want the blasted thing to sit still long enough for a decent shot.”
    Peter smiled at me lazily, examining me as I angled for the best shot.
    “Most women resemble that bird you know.”
    “Oh?”
    Peter sat comfortably in the driver’s seat as he scanned the bush. “All pretty-like, but so quick to flit to safety the moment they get a whiff of something remotely unsafe or unfamiliar.”
      I analyzed him.  “Such as you?”
    “Well, I’m not exactly considered the greatest catch—living this unstable lifestyle and all.”
    I lowered my camera and slowly allowed my eyes to savor his lean, tanned face and trim, athletic body.  “Stability is much over-rated.  And, you don’t see me flitting away do you?”
    “No.  I don’t.”
    My breath caught and I knew that something between us had altered.
    “So,” he drawled. “Up for more history this early morning, Mandy?”
    “Go ahead, professor.”
    “As you know, over-hunting had nearly wiped out all the big game in the late nineteenth century, so then-president Paul Kruger decided to proclaim the areas between the Sabie and Crocodile Rivers as a game park, dubbing it the Sabie Reserve. After the Anglo-Boer War, two to three thousand indigenous people were forcibly relocated as the park expanded. The last removal of the Makuleke people ended in 1969, allowing Kruger Park to evolve into the world’s largest game park. The dispute regarding the rights of the native people and the necessity of preserving habitat for the indigenous creatures still rages today. It’s a never-ending battle, Mandy. I can’t make up my mind who’s right. Certainly the animals and plants of this region are important, but so are the rights of the misplaced indigenous people. It’s a tough call.”
    “Don’t you feel that eco-tourism