It’s July, and time again to flee from our home on Key Biscayne in South Florida to avoid the suffocating summer heat and the potential hurricanes that may assault us there at any time from June first to the end of November.

We have been encouraged to evacuate and go far, far away from the Key by many of our friends in view of the scientific fact that this strategy has, for the last 2 years, been a greater determinant in keeping hurricanes away from Key Biscayne than global warming! And so, after considering the options we decided to continue our romance with beautiful Cape Town.

Our travel plans for 2008 had been simple. Except for a quick two week trip to Morocco, (see “Meet me in the Kasbah”) our only major trip would be to Cape Town for the next 4 months. We took advantage of a non-stop flight on Delta from JFK to Cape Town. Simple indeed, were it not for the inevitable misery all hapless air travelers are bound to encounter. In this case, it was the seemingly insurmountable difficulty of getting from Miami to JFK on American Airlines, where we would then catch the Delta flight to Cape Town. To make a long story short, the American Airlines flight was 2 hours late in taking off and the perils of Pauline were afoot. We missed the Delta flight, our baggage was God knows where between domestic American and international Delta, there was a lot of conflicting information, and we had to spend two nights in New York City with only our carry on bags, which had been packed to allow for baggage delays. Unfortunately, that anticipated Cape Town’s winter climate, not New York’s brutal summer weather! We didn’t relax until three days later when we finally arrived in Cape Town and saw our bags going round and round on the luggage carrousel. After this experience, we redoubled our vow to seek only non-stop flights and if this proves impossible, to at least stay with same airline for the entire trip.

Our home in Cape Town this year is on the same line of cliffs overlooking False Bay as last year. The big difference is that, having been sensitized to the chills of the Cape winter, we made sure that there would be ample means in the house for us to keep warm. Last year, we had nothing but fairly inefficient space heaters which really did not do the job. This year we have under-floor electric heating, wall-mounted powerful heating and air conditioning units, electric blankets and…joy of joy…a wood burning fireplace. Like last year, we have reserved whale viewing seats and we enjoy the same dramatic vistas of the entire expanse of False Bay surrounded by the mountainous, rocky and wild landscape of Table Mountain National Park.

As to what we would do to pass the time, we really had no agenda, except for the anticipated visit of our friends, the intrepid Denisons, (Nancy and Floyd). They would arrive on August 8th, and stay for 3 weeks - as long as Nancy could stand being eaten up by guilt for leaving her canine children, “Bandit” and “Coco” behind in what we assume must be a sumptuous “doggie spa”. For Floyd, it wasn’t any easier. He had to disentangle himself from his business commitments for a period of about three weeks, during which time electronic communications were, to say the least, limited!

Being sensitive to the fact that time was of the essence, Joyce had laboriously prepared a “spread-sheet” for the Denisons which encyclopedically listed all the possible options available to enrich their stay with us in South Africa. It was up to them to pick, choose and prioritize the destinations and activities that would flesh out the framework established by the spread sheet. In other words, not withstanding the draconian discipline imposed by the spread-sheet, the reality was that they were, in fact, free to stray from Joyce’s matrix and do anything they damn well pleased, without any repercussions whatsoever… as long as the airline and safari camp reservations in Zambia, as well as those for the Bushman’s Kloof Safari Lodge were not compromised.

As these two destinations consumed about ten or eleven days of the Denisons fortnight with us, very little time was actually left uncommitted for them to properly appreciate the full benefits of Joyce’s spread-sheet. Clearly one should never plan a South African sojourn without allowing at least a couple of months to do all the things one is apt to encounter. This is not a land to be enjoyed frenetically.

Our side trip before the arrival of the Denisons, beyond revisiting all of the haunts and activities we so enjoyed last year, was a week-long outing into the Cederberg and Ceres mountains where we first stopped in a charming little town called Montague before heading for the final destination of our driving escapade near Oudtshoorn. In Montague, we stayed in a charming little hotel, not surprisingly called “Hotel Monague” The hotel was furnished, quite remarkably, with some very impressive classic Art Deco and Art Nouveau pieces, endowing the place with an overwhelming Erte flavor. During dinner, we were entertained by three cute, frisky, hungry but diffident, dogs that animated our stay with lots of enthusiastic antics. They made us feel right at home. It was an altogether delightful experience.

When at last we arrived in Oudtshoorn we sought out the place Joyce had selected for our stay. It turned out to be a tent on an artificial lake at the end of a dirt road. Of course there were a number of other tents and a lodge. In fact, it was what I would call a quasi-safari camp by the name of Buffelsdrift. It promised not quite the wilderness experience we expected from our Zambia Safari camps, but enough of a taste to qualify as a warm-up for the bigger expedition.

Buffledrift’s logo depicts a Cape Buffalo, of which there are a few on the reserve. The only game we encountered was a pod of lazy hippos wallowing on the far edges of the lake, 2 rhino, several antelope varieties and, what the lodge is famous for, the three juvenile elephants, ranging in age between three and five years, that the camp had acquired and habituated to leisurely walks with visitors. They were not yet fully trained to accept riders, but were very receptive, as we found out, to accompanying camp guests on nature walks, being hand-fed elephant treats and posing for pictures without pushing fragile humans around…too much..! They each knew their name, to wit: “Bulolo” the bull, “Malaika” and “Jabari”, the two girls.

We spent two nights at Buffledrift in a very civilized tent with en-suite bathroom. It was quite comfortable with an eye towards nature conservancy. Namely, there was plenty of light, hot water and electricity. In fact there was even an electric heating unit that thermostatically maintained a comfortable temperature throughout our stay. It was, in other words, a real “safari for sissies” experience. But not for Joyce. She had noted that one of the daytime activities options was a three or four hour horse-back excursion through the area, and that’s what she did, alone with the camps stable-master, as there were no other takers. When she returned, after dusk, and was helped off the horse, she emitting whimpers of pain every time she moved, she was so stiff and cramped from her equestrian exploit. I, of course, did not feel a thing, as I eschewed the temptation to ride a beautiful steed.

We had noted that a couple of miles from the camp there were two attractions that promised to enhance the otherwise limited game viewing experience of Buffledrift. One was the “Kanga Wildlife Ranch” and the other was a large ostrich farm morphed into a tourist attraction. I am sure that PETA and others who take a critical view on how we treat and keep animals, might frown on both these enterprises…but maybe not. Both Kanga and the ostrich farm seem to have gone out of their way to show great sensitivity to the principles of Conservation and Environmental Education. Nevertheless, both places had Disney-like qualities, which, I must admit, added a lot to our enjoyment of the visit.

The “Wild Life Ranch” was really a well populated zoo with larger than usual enclosures and lots of animal encounters. Joyce had the thrill of petting and scratching a 200 or so pound Bengal Tiger cub that couldn’t stop playing with its toy for even an instant. The lions, including some rare white ones, were doing what they do best, namely sleeping. The Cheetahs occupied a special place on the Ranch, by prominently encouraging contributions from visitors to the Cheetah Conservation Foundation (CCF). But there was a lot more … a huge, magnificent jaguar which seemed quite at ease with all his admirers gawking outside his protected precinct, a fearsome collection of gigantic Nile crocodiles laying completely immobile on the muddy shores of Kanga’s elaborate water theme. The latter was accessed and traversed on a wooden boardwalk which played host to all kinds of storks, egrets and other water fowls. It was, in other words, a kind of Noah’s Arc or compact African Game Park where one could take in the entire animal kingdom in one sitting.

We had no great expectations for our visit to the ostrich farm. We learned a lot about these huge birds that are so strange to us. In South Africa and in other regions where they proliferate, they are an important asset which is taken quite seriously. Every part of these birds is utilized. One of their eggs will provide a meal for over twenty people, their meat is served as steak, dried biltong or carpaccio, their feathers adorn hats and other wardrobe denizen, their skin yields a fine leather which has become a super trendy material for all the things that leather is normally used for and the empty eggs have become the basis for an arts and craft industry that seems unlimited in the field of home décor.

We got up close and personal to these birds. We were given a bowl of seeds to hand out to them and, as no good deed is ever left unpunished, we were immersed in a flock of ostriches wrapping their long necks around us, fighting to reach the bowl as if they hadn’t been fed for weeks. But it was Joyce who was the hero of the day. She responded to the call for volunteers to ride an ostrich and indeed she did! The process is interesting. First, the rider sits on a wood frame, similar to the kind used in rodeo bull riding. The ostrich is then backed into that frame by a couple of helpers and a hood is slipped over its head. This calms the ostrich down and makes it stand still. This may sound ridiculous, but not being able to see what’s around, it now feels safe since (ah-ah) it can no longer be seen by anybody. The rider is now installed on the back of the hooded ostrich. Finally, the hood is removed and the ostrich, with rider on its back, erupts out of the wooden frame for a wild ride for as long as the rider can hang on to the wing feathers.

Joyce did well; she must have lasted for at least ten seconds before the helpers succeeded in breaking the ostrich’s gallop and catch her as she was about to slip off the feathery back and dramatically hit the dust. The next day, she sublimated and immediately treated herself to yet another handbag. This one, as you might expect, was made of ostrich leather!

I am sure Joyce was looking forward to adding an ostrich to her “Things I made Peter Ride” photos. Of course I was really anxious to try this thrill. Unfortunately, like in all flying things, there was a weight limit…which I exceeded. No matter the vociferousness of my protestations, I was not allowed to once again prove my manhood or demonstrate my love for Joyce.

We had arrived in Cape Town at the beginning of July and it was now the second week of August. On the 8th, the Denison made their appearance at the Cape Town airport where we picked them up and installed them in our hillside dwelling to share with us the beautiful views of False Bay, the antics of the whales beneath our balcony and eventually, the safaris in Zambia as well as a simpler and more sybaritic journey to “Bushman’s Kloof” in the picturesque Cederberg Mountains.

After a week to get over jet lag, eat at all our favorite restaurants, shop at Joyce’s favorite stores and visit sites they had not seen on their prior trips, like Robben’s Island, where Mandela had been incarcerated for so long, we were all ready for the bush and our Zambia safari. And so, on the`16th of August, the Denisons and the Korys set out for the African wilderness. To get there involved a horrendous trip that got us out of bed at 4:30 am to catch a domestic flight from Cape Town to Johannesburg. There we transferred to an international flight to Lusaka in Zambia. Once there, we took an hour and a half long flight to an unpaved airstrip in the wilderness in tiny five seat Cessna and from that point, a two hour ride in a Land Rover that was even bumpier than the Cessna.

The trip came off without incidents, except for the abominable behavior of the South African Airways personnel who went out of their way to make the trip miserable. They wouldn’t check our luggage through to Zambia but had to be draconian about some arbitrary and capricious weight limit for carry-on luggage. The net result was that we had to pick up our unnecessarily checked bags in Johannesburg and then take them back through security and schlep them, for what seemed like miles, from the domestic to the International terminal there… after, of course, clearing through immigration a second time. Once processed through this sausage factory, we ended up in the unbelievably crowded departure gallery. It was at that point that Nancy discovered that in the midst of all the paper shuffling and security nonsense, she was horrified to find herself with a boarding pass but without the air ticket. Seems that SAA had failed to return it to her at check-in. Without it, she could not get on the plane. She had about 10 minutes to retrace her steps, get to the check-in counter to buy a new ticket, go back through security and immigration again and hope the boarding gate would not be slammed in her face.

Nancy and Floyd left their bags with us and they went off on their quest. We kept wondering, as we were waiting for their return surrounded by their baggage, what would happen and what we would do if they missed the flight; this was clearly a tense moment for all of us. Fortunately, the Denisons are passionate exercise freaks. This enabled them to conquer the Jo-Burg International Airport racing marathon and meet their plane.

The Cape Town to Johannesburg leg was extremely painful, as the plane was so packed that only a contortionist might have found some comfort. Not only that, but the cabin reeked to high heaven. Either the ventilation system was broken or a lot of people hadn’t bathed recently. The second leg to Lusaka was better. We were relieved when we got to Lusaka and were met by the representatives from “SEFOFANE”, the charter general aviation air service that is joint-venturing with “Wilderness Safaris” to ease the transfer of their guests from camp to camp in the bush and to avoid the horrors of commercial air travel.

They took care of the airport formalities and eventually escorted us to the little five seater Cessna that was to fly us to Kalamu, a five-tent Wilderness Safari Camp in the South Luangwa National Park situated, as the name implies, on the Luangwa river. As we crossed the tarmac, on the way to what looked like a toy airplane, (Floyd even asked me where the rubber band was located) we met the Pilot, Ian, and we piled into the tiny plane. Nancy sat in the co-pilot seat, anxious to demonstrate her familiarity with the environment. In the course of the flight, Ian let her have the controls for a little time. I was terrified and it didn’t help to know that her father had been a commercial pilot and that she had served as a flight attendant before becoming a lawyer. Floyd and I sat in the second row and this left just enough room to squeeze Joyce into the steerage space at the back of the plane.

It was a spectacular flight. As we cleared the high escarpment that unfolded the views of the meandering Luangwa River, Ian indulged in some acrobatic low altitude flying that gave us an opportunity to see the crocs, hippos and other game in the water and in the bush surrounding the river. With the plane dipping closer to the water, Joyce was thrilled and, as usual, I was a little anxious. After we landed on an unpaved, almost improvised runway, we were met by Petros, who was to be our host, driver, guide and all around guardian during our stay at Kalamu.

Our welcoming committee met us shortly after we were loaded on the Land Rover and on our way to the camp. It was a swarm of tsetse flies that stayed with us throughout the two hour ride to camp. No amount of swatting and cursing helped and we were all unavoidably eaten when we finally reached the camp. Nobody came down with the dreaded sleeping sickness but the bites were more than a casual nuisance.

When we finally reached Kalamu we were greeted by Gogo, Petros’ adorable and witty wife, a couple of helpers, including someone to give us wet towels and some juice. Once installed in our tent we only had to walk 50 feet to reach the main tent where dinner was going to be served after we had had a chance to shower and clean up. Actually the social life of the camp revolved around a pit surrounded by a circular seating arrangement with a burning wood fire in the center. Once in the pit, things got very convivial and we all had a merry time recalling our long day and getting briefed on the program during our stay.

We also got to meet Gogo and Petros’s precocious eight year old daughter Rebecca. Nancy immediately bonded with her and spent the rest of our three day stay teaching her American songs like: “Row, Row, Row your boat…” and arithmetic lessons. I thought for a minute that she and Floyd were going to kidnap her. Actually, she really was cute as a button and her parents were indeed very proud of her!

The place was magic in unpretentious and un-dramatic ways. The tent was an ordinary safari tent, but it had all the comforts of a five star hotel. The bed was king sized with a fluffy and cushy duvet, there was plenty of hot water with a charming outdoor shower and beautiful copper fixtures, lighting was poor, as it was solar-powered and there was a high speed fan, also solar powered, which proved invaluable the next day when we almost died of the heat during the mid-day siesta time. It was all very civilized and yet we were in the wilderness miles and hours away from civilization, internet, telephone, radio or TV. The only sounds came from the hippos that lived in pods in the river beneath us and the symphony of birds, including the incessant so called “work-harder” bird which repeated this message during all hours of the day and night.

The daily routine was simple. Petros would wake us at 6:00 am, by 6:30 we would meet in the “pit” for coffee, tea and something to munch on; and by 7:00 we would mount up for our morning game drive. After a stop in the bush for more coffee and a snack we would return to camp for brunch at 11:00.

The first day we were there, the brunch break gave me the opportunity to, as the South Africans would say, “organize” a Bloody Mary. Since the drink was uncommon to our hosts, the chef and I went on a quest for the ingredients. It took a few trips back to the kitchen, but in the end it was a complete success and, except for a lack of ice, I was able to share a perfect Bloody Mary with everybody. I, of course, emerged in the eyes of the camp staff as a complete eccentric fool.

On the second day, just as we expected to return to camp for brunch, Petros stopped in a grove of trees and there to our complete surprise, we found the entire staff of the camp busy preparing a complete brunch in the middle of the bush…including, miracle of miracles, all the fixings for a Bloody Mary, as I had demonstrated the day before in camp. I was deeply touched, as this gesture far transcended the highest standards of mere hospitality.
After brunch, it is “down time” until 4:00 pm when the heat of the day has dissipated. That’s when we had a brief “High Tea” and mounted up again for our late afternoon and evening game drive.

Before dusk, Petros would stop the Land Rover at some suitably attractive place and we would have a “Sun Downer”, worshiping the fast-sinking sun over the horizon with a little snack and some alcohol. As night falls and the dark envelops us, an entirely different kind of bush surrounds us. We still hear the birds; and the hippos are still active, the antelopes cluster themselves into bouquets to start their night-long vigil against the predators that are undoubtedly lurking in the vicinity and the leopards come to life surreptitiously in search for dinner. It is time to turn back to camp. We arrive there in pitch darkness. Dinner is ready and we have less than twenty minutes to shower, change and get ready. Cocktails in the “Pit”, a brightly burning fire there, an amazingly tasty meal prepared according to “Wilderness Safari” recipes in a deceptively primitive boma-like kitchen and we are ready for bed.

Like all good hospitalities, there had been turn down service with a chocolate favor and a little goodnight message from Gogo. Unlike most hospitalities, when we slipped under the covers and experience a little chill, we were wonderfully surprised to find two hot water bottles charmingly wrapped in a zebra insulation cover. It was one of those little touches that turn the most hardened “accidental” safari camper into a “bush addict”!

From the standpoint of game viewing, the area did not compare to Kruger or Sabi Sands and, indeed, we had seen better. But this was offset by the extent to which our hosts were warm and friendly and the fact that we had the entire camp and its staff to ourselves. We saw no lions, but we did encounter lots of Impalas, Water Bucks, Giraffes, Hippos, Cape Buffalos, Crocs and, of course a gazillion Pukus. We ran into some elephants but avoided any confrontation with the gigantic males that stood in our path as we where well aware of who would win if they got pi…ed at us.

Joyce was particularly taken by the relatively rare sighting of a giraffe in the process of taking a drink from a patch of water. Giraffes are quite vulnerable when they drink. They must spread their front legs wide while still in a standing position, awkwardly bending their long necks to the water. As such, they are virtually immobilized and they lose their prime defense against predators; kicking back and sideways with deadly force.

To my horror, after Floyd wondered why we did not see any snakes and Petros responded that they are extremely rare in this area, the Denisons were greeted by one when they returned from the very game drive where the subject was discussed. Fortunately, it was a non-poisonous kind as harmless as the tiny frogs that liked the interior of our lavatory sinks!
I have always been interested in trees, and wood happens to be my favorite building material. It is therefore understandable that I displayed some curiosity about the trees in the area. I pestered Petros on the subject until, after we had wandered through the bush for two days, I was at last able to identify the dominant variety of local trees; namely the “Sausage Tree” so called because of the shape of their foot-long seed pods that hang from their branches like a Christmas tree. More challenging were the “Winter-thorn” trees so varied, from small acacia bushes to large majestic oak-like trees, and so ubiquitous that, in case of doubt, I would end up calling any tree I saw a Winter-thorn, to every one’s merriment. There were also beautiful Ebony and Mahogany trees, as well as the unique “Rain Trees” which enjoy such an unusual symbiotic relationship with their following of insects. Most difficult to spot were the Amarula and Tamarind trees, whose fruits and nuts are so eagerly sought after by the Baboon and elephant that abound in the area and the humans who see all kinds of uses for what these trees produce.

We spent three nights in Kalamu and by the time we left, Gogo, Petros and Rebecca felt like family. I am sure we will encounter them again some day. As to Joyce, she had made a careful inventory of her Tsetse flies bites (she claims well over 30), which had by now turned into ugly red welts. She had prepared a spreadsheet in order to do a proper accounting, and it’s now safe with our passports and other important papers.

We knew it was time to leave for our next destination when Ian made his appearance to join us for the long drive back to the landing strip where he had parked the little Cessna. The beauty of hopping between safari camps in little Cessnas, is that the bother of airports is bypassed. This is how we got from Kalamu to “Chiawa Camp”. The ride both in the air and on the ground was short compared to the preceding experience. The runway was actually sort-of paved with tar dumped on the landing strip. We were greeted by Daniel who had been waiting there for us. We climbed on board the Land Rover for the hour or so drive to the camp. This was where we encountered a proliferation of mighty Baobab trees…some, as old as a thousand or more years with trunks as big as a house.

When we arrived at the camp, we were greeted by the camp manager Jason and his wife Macaley. Later that night we also got to meet Grant, the owner and founder of the camp, a delightful gentleman with whom we discussed the virtues of Bushman’s Kloof, a very different kind of camp within driving distance of Cape Town. We were scheduled to stay there the following week or so.

As Macaley showed us around, I noticed the skull of what must have been either a hippo or an elephant on the terrace. The jaw and teeth were enormous. So I asked Macaley what kind of animal this had been. Without blinking or breaking her stride she answered: “Warthog”, leaving it to our imagination to visualize the size of the warthogs that populated the area. I knew, at that moment, that in this camp at least, there was someone with a worse sense of humor than mine!

There were some significant difference between Chiawa and Kalamu:
1. The Location - The camp is situated on the Zambezi River in the Lower Zambezi National park, not far from places like Ruckomechi and Mana Pools in Zimbabwe ,which we had visited a few years ago. It is much closer to Lusaka and appreciably further South and therefore, it is quite a bit colder than Kalamu. Most importantly, we were not assaulted by Tsetse flies;

2. The size - Chiawa is larger than Kalamu…and more crowded. Nine tents instead of five and about eighteen guests. Unlike Kalamu therefore, we did not have the place for ourselves. Indeed, it wasn’t long after we were installed in our tent and tried to enjoy the open fire at the center of the ubiquitous open air “circle of socialization”, that I got into a conversation with this perfectly well educated ex-pat American lawyer who made it clear that he was very important and wanted everyone within ear range to know that he was living in Monte Carlo. He expounded, as he prattled on during cocktails, about the terrible time he had in Paris and how the French - all of them, without exception - are the worst people in the human race. In his well founded and obviously learned views, they are rude, arrogant, self-serving and most of all ungrateful to the Americans who, after all, had freed their country from Nazi tyranny…It was George Bush and “Freedom Fries” all over again. His name was Mel. I introduced myself, and as my ire was rising irresistibly in my chest, I could no longer contain myself and I had to lash out with some opinions of my own, given my life in France during WWII and the fact that my love and loyalty to America and France is evenly split! As Mel and I made a spectacle of ourselves that transcended cocktails and moved into the dinner table, it became abundantly clear to me that this was no longer the intimate atmosphere of Kalamu;

3. The facilities - The tents were larger and more luxurious. Notably, we had a seating area with a couch, a full bathtub as well as both an indoor AND outdoor shower, a generous dressing area, a double sink lavatory and the charm of the hot zebra-covered water bottles was eschewed for electric blankets on our king-size bed. There was also more of a main lodge and more staff. In all, there was a greater sense of permanence to the place than Kalamu, which seemed to be not far from a mobile safari camp in its general character;

4. The activities - The most important difference between the two destinations however, was that Chiawa really capitalizes on the Zambezi River. A lot of camp activities utilized the River not only as a scenic asset but as a venue for wildlife exploration activities, canoeing, and even meal service. While there, one is constantly conscious of the river’s presence, as well as that of the wildlife which exists there. Besides the River, we found the game in the Lower Zambezi River National Park more prolific than what we had seen in the South Luangwa National Park where, for example, we saw few elephants and never saw any lions, which Joyce among others, consider the staple of African wild life. In contrast, at Chiawa on the day we arrived, before we even got to our tent, we saw this large herd of at least 30 elephants splashing wildly as they crossed from an island in the middle of the Zambezi to the shore of our camp, “en famille”, so to speak, with the juveniles and the babies being helped by their mothers and other adults up the bank to dry land. Once there, they quickly and methodically disappeared in the bush. It was an incredible sight that we will never forget!

The game drives were made more interesting by virtue of the fact that, not only were there lions around, but they happened to be pretty active. We spent at least an hour observing a pride of fourteen lionesses, cubs and at least one young male sprawled in a clearing, within sight of their potential prey. They periodically adjusting their position and location, like an insomniac tossing and turning in bed. In so doing, they triggered a paroxysm of camera action that seemed endless. After dusk, in our tent, these lions joined the hippos in entertaining us with an endless symphony of jungle sounds that provided a remarkably effective deterrent to venturing outside the tent at night.

But it was the mighty Zambezi River which provided the truly special opportunities for the wonderful activities we enjoyed. My favorite was relaxing, having lunch and high tea on a good size pontoon boat while floating up and down the river. It was in that fashion that we gave up the afternoon game drive and instead, explored the shoreline from a safe yet intimate distance, getting close and personal in the process with the huge crocs that sleep and populate the river banks and the pods of hippos that wallow there. There is no better feeling than experiencing comfort and safety in a potentially deadly environment like that of this river which we knew to be filled with all kinds of the dangerous denizens.

For Joyce and me, this brought back memories of a three-day canoe safari she had gotten me into on the Zimbabwe side of the same river about ten years or so ago. It was very scary. There we were, paddling up-stream crossing the path of bunches of very angry hippos anxious to reach the shore along which we were moving. They had evidently laid claim to the right of way by virtue of the territorial imperative they clearly controlled. As we desperately kept trying to surreptitiously get past them, we got into a desperate and loosing battle with the current and a strong headwind that had arisen. They irresistibly pushed us against the shore…where, of course, the crocs were waiting for us!

Fortunately, this was nothing like that! The cushy pontoon boat indeed was wonderful. But alas, I would not get away scot-free. Jason and Daniel had arranged for us, if we wanted to do it, a… guess what…canoe safari. The plan was to paddle down stream a respectable distance, then land and mount our Land Rover for a dusk and night ride back to camp. In other words, quite a long day for us. Though full of fear and trepidation recalling our last experience on the Zambezi, I reluctantly agree to join Nancy, Joyce and Floyd on our canoe safari. The only comfort I had was that Chiawa, up to this point had been a very tame experience. Everything was made supremely easy for you. Why shouldn’t I take a little canoe ride?

Three canoes had been prepared for us. Floyd was going with Derrick, the canoe guide, Joyce and Nancy got Daniel in a three-man canoe and Derrick’s assistant shared the third canoe with me. And so we got underway, smoothly downstream, with little effort and safely away from the shore. Even a large croc lying there didn’t bother me. All my anxieties were rapidly evaporating… until we hit a sand bank…as we spied an armada of hippos deploying in our direction. Derrick’s assistant said we had to get into deeper water and he steered in that direction. With enough speed, we should be able to avoid an encounter with the hippos. In the meantime, Nancy and Joyce thought that the armada of hippos sliding in the water from the sand bank made for great photo opportunities. They stopped paddling waiting for the perfect picture…which I visualized being my overturned canoe chewed in half by an angry hippo. As the pod was coming closer and closer, I gently suggested to the intrepid photographers that maybe it was time to move on; whereupon Joyce responded that if I was going to whine she would not take me on safari anymore. So I said a prayer, gritted my teeth, and hoped we would get into deep water before the hippos got to us. Happily, it all ended well, and half an hour later we were on shore, off the canoes and into our trusty Land Rover.

After a brief sundowner, we were on our way back to camp…or so I thought. It got dark quickly; we glimpsed a leopard, some Cape Buffalos and lots of antelopes, giraffes and some elephants. The drive to camp, however, took longer than we expected. It started to get chilly and we began to get anxious to get there. Every time we saw lights, hoping that they came from the camp, we were disappointed to find that they usually belonged to the headlights of other Land Rovers, presumably also returning to camp. Suddenly, after a dip in the bumpy dirt path and a sharp turn, we saw a firmament of lights, like a town when seen from the air. But we were not anywhere close to a city and the camp was not that extensively lit. The mystery cleared when, after another turn, we emerged from the overgrown bush into what I can only describe as a “Valpurgis Night” scene. Hundreds of candles and other points of light were arranged in several tiers illuminating an ill-defined clearing, which was really the floor of a dried sandy riverbed. The area was filled with braziers, with an army of women and men bustling around campfires and tables set out for what appeared like an orgiastic revel. It evoked images of a medieval witches’ Sabbath with demonic and pagan rites. The only thing missing was the stone alter where a maiden would be sacrificed.

Actually, it was really the full staff of the camp, and what looked like its entire kitchen, that had transformed the riverbed and its surrounding tall rocky escarpments into the venue for an incredibly sumptuous feast. It involved a fantastic array of barbequed meats, vegetables and baked goods, laid out buffet style and served on long tables that occupied much of the riverbed. Joyce noted that nothing was missing; there was even a port-o-let for the ladies. It was a magic experience. We felt transported into a world of fantasy where the clearing seemed like a grotto and the surrounding rocks, like a Boma. Goethe, Faust and Mephistopheles could not have done better.

We certainly slept well that night. The next day, it was packing again and saying adieu to the hippos, the crocs and the denizens of the bush. It was time to take leave of Jason, Macaley, Derrick and the rest of the staff. Macaley couldn’t resist a last joke on me, informing us that, due to mechanical problems, there would be a change in schedule…but she quickly relented as she must have seen the look of desperate anxiety in our eyes as we tried to imagine the havoc this kind of delay brings to the air connections we had to make in Lusaka and Johannesburg. We might have to spend a week patching up the damage…”Just kidding”.

As luck would have it, it was Ian and not some new pilot who stepped off the little Cessna and flew us back to Lusaka, with Nancy now firmly at the controls (Ha Ha!) and so ended our Zambia safari journey, safely on the well paved landing strip at the Lusaka airport.

It is now August 22 and the Denisons are still with us for a week or so longer. Three days of that week would be spent at Bushman’s Kloof, leaving far too little time for many other adventures. But of course, I would still try to cram in at least one dinner party!

In fact, there was one already in the offing. A month or so ago, as we sought to reestablish our “Liaisons Dangereuses” in Cape Town, we had drinks with our Cellar Master friend from the Waterford wine estate, Francois Haasbroek. Joyce, always the genial Pearl Mesta, invited him to dinner. She made the mistake of asking him what he would like to eat. Francois, moved by God knows what malicious demon…probably having heard of my exploits with the dish, asked me to cook a Cassoulet!

Now, this is really an ambitious undertaking. Out of my kitchen at home and away from my comfort zone in assembling the ingredients, I should never have attempted this. However, my ego and male pride as well as an inherent fear of being one-upped by Francois forced me to quickly rise up to the challenge.

A date was set, the quest for ingredients and the battle plan for the preparation logistics were all afoot. While the “Saucisson de Lyon” (garlic sausage) proved easy to find, the Confit proved far more difficult. Francois thought he had a source, but it did not pan out. I finally wound up at our favorite French Restaurant in Simons Town “Bon Appetit”. Manuel, the owner and chef, was indeed not only familiar with Cassoulet, but was able to provide me with the Confit so essential for the dish. I was home free!

It took two days to prepare the dish and, if I may say so myself, it turned out perfect and delicious. The evening of the meal, Francois showed up with his significant other and his housemate, who is a psychologist. Francois also brought several un-labeled bottles wine, representing his current “experiments” at the winery. His wines almost overshadowed my Cassoulet! More importantly, it made Nancy very happy - to the extent that it sent her back to her Georgia roots, with “Gone with the Wind” inspiring her to break into an amazing imitation of Prissy’s declaration that she “don’t know nothing about birthing no babies…” Her performance could have won her an Oscar nomination and, taken with the rest of the evening, certainly gave our new psychologist friend a great deal of research material for a dissertation on “Crazy Americans”.

On the heels of this dinner, we set out for our three day outing to Bushman’s Kloof early the next morning. This would be our second visit there, but it was the first for the Denisons. It is really not a traditional safari destination. I would call it a “Safari recovery retreat”. It is a luxurious Relais & Chateaux resort, high in the Cederberg mountains, where great food, relaxing spa treatments, five star sleeping accommodations and just enough activities to justify starting the engine of a safari-type Land Rover defines the nature of one’s stay there. The two factors that induced us to include Bushman’s Kloof in our plans, besides the luxury and phenomenal hospitality of the place, was first, the fact that no planes or airports were involved. It is a pleasant four hour drive Northwest from Cape Town, traversing beautiful terrain. Including fields of bucolic flowering fields, grazing sheep and at least one very picturesque mountain pass. It is at that point, after the pass, that South Africa’s citrus industry is found and the fields of colorful flowers are replaced by miles of citrus laden orange groves. After reaching a town called Clanwilliam, the road is no longer paved and we were subjected to a very bumpy thirty or so kilometer ride until we reached Bushman’s Kloof. The other factor that had drawn us to that destination was the sheer beauty of the resort and its natural setting above a rocky sandstone escarpment that define the deep ravine that lends its name to the place. The combination of craggy rocks, fynbos flora and the pure Dutch architecture with thick thatched roofs and brilliant white-washed walls that characterize the Cape region, is irresistibly beautiful.

We shared a duplex cottage with the Denisons, located on a pond filled with ducks, within steps from the spa and the main lodge. Nancy immediately started feeding the ducks and couldn’t break herself away, lest she might miss some photo ops. The weather was quite benign and the cottage had a sunny patio which provided the perfect venue for Floyd and me to savor our cognac, smoke our cigars and recount old “war tales”. With Joyce pampering herself in the comfortable bath tub, and Nancy’s ducks happily quacking away, our life at Bushman’s Kloof was truly idyllic. The “game drives” consisted mostly of visits to the primitive (300 to 3,000 years old) Bushmen and San rock paintings which are remarkable by the fact that they displayed, even then, clear signs of a rudimentary understanding of perspective by the way they positioned the legs of quadrupeds and showed heads in a three quarter profile…a realization that had never been grasped by the Ancient Egyptians and not really mastered until the Renaissance. In the process of riding around the area, we really did not see any game, other than a few herds of antelope, some unusual Zebras and beautiful Elands. We also saw some wild rabbits and a couple of Coyotes. But it was obviously not the game that brought us to Bushman’s Kloof.

After three days, we headed back, rested but not yet ready to wean ourselves from the Denisons, but the last hurrah was imminent. A last supper at our favorite spot – Harbour House, and a late gourmet lunch at “Aubergine”, which clearly ranks among the finest restaurants in the Cape region, on the way to the airport for their flight back home.