When I began writing this, it was after Labor Day already. We’d been in Cape Town for almost 2 months, in the same house we rented last year, overlooking majestic False Bay. All the conditions we placed on our landlord have been met. We now have a new, comfortable king-size bed, a far more cooperative housekeeper, a new cook-top, a bunch of new pots and all the electronics are working…most of the time!

We arrived after a 30+ hour journey from Key Biscayne without incidents, on July 17, having left Miami on the 15th. It felt good to be back in Cape Town. A philosopher once averred that “Pleasure is really the relief from pain”. In the same way, Cape Town’s chill in the air was a welcome relief from the oppressive South Florida heat. Correspondingly, that very same chill, which bordered on discomfort, was relieved by the pleasure of a roaring fire in our living room, electric blankets on our bed, under-floor heating in all the living areas and pretty effective electric wall heating units everywhere. Compared to the year before last, we are a lot more comfortable. All we had the first year were small space heaters that emitted very little ambient warmth, and we were really cold most of the time.

Moving on beyond the weather, Joyce, soon after getting over jet lag, turned into her customary activity driven junkie; she had an agenda that stretched to infinity, and endless “To Do” lists that amply fleshed out each of these agendas, consuming every minute of almost every day. She also had the capacity to match all these activities with a level of energy that always left me in a cloud of dust, scrambling as best I could to keep up.

But first, however, she had to come to terms with her electronics. They all had babies since last year. In addition to the old Blackberry, her Laptop, my Laptop, the house Wi-Fi, her i-Phone, my Motorola Razor, the digital camera, the GPS, her Amazon Kindle reading machine and a new Bose i-Pod sound machine, she now also had a little printer and a Skype phone system with ear phones and a camera positioned at the computer in such a way as to enable two-way visual communication. Clearly, she was gismo-ed up the gazoo for every occasion and with every “App” Steve Job could dream up.

Once the electronics had been beaten into submission, we settled our social and epicurean agenda. This included a week-long visit in Plettenberg the week after we arrived. Carol and Stan Berger had invited us to stay with them in their vacation home - it would seem that our behavior when we stayed with them last year must have been OK. It was at least good enough to have us again! Carol is really an impressive food maven. Among other implements, she has this huge gas stove in her kitchen. It was truly intimidating and I couldn’t even get to the point of lighting it. My ego, however, could not stand being so decisively one-upped and so, like a fool, I volunteered to make a “Coq au Vin” for the Burgers and some friends they had invited … and the cook-off was on. It actually ended very well, even though I had to dredge my memory for a recipe, and some of the ingredients - like bacon, for example - were strictly verboten in their kosher kitchen.

On the way to and from Plettenberg, we splurged by spending one night each way at the Birkenhead House in Hermanus, where the Southern Right whales congregate on their way from the South Pole, often with a pit-stop in nearby Witsand where, we were told, the whales liked to stretch their flukes and give birth to their calves. Birkenhead house, named after a famous tall ship that had been wrecked on the constantly battered rocky coast and swells of the Indian Ocean at that location, is more like a luxurious private villa than a hotel, and more hotel than B & B or guest-house. The place is as informal as it is comfortable. There is no dining room as such, meals are simply served in the living area on a table set up on demand, to take advantage of either a spectacular view of the Ocean’s furiously breaking waves or the log burning fire place. From the street, Birkenhead House cascades down towards the ocean and wraps around an introverted, stepped Riad style space, open to the sky and filled with carp-populated fountains, reflecting pools and opportunities for outdoor relaxation. The service is “Aman Resort” quality. This means making guests feel that the place is their home and that, not only is every wish a command for the staff but you don’t even have to ask for anything, as anticipation of one’s desires is really the keynote of this style of hospitality.

Our brief stay in Hermanus was, as we expected, magic. Imagine, a contemporary villa, with slick, mostly white interiors, interesting furnishings, eclectic but genuinely antique furniture, interesting large scale paintings and art work, an open fire to warm the endless glass expanse towards a constantly furious ocean and you have the ideal stage setting for the antics of the whales that we observed blowing, rolling, breaching, with their gigantic tails telescoping and beating their flukes as if they were inviting us to join in.

Still in July, we played host to Allen Strachan and Linda, his Swedish fiancée. We have always been especially fond of Allen, as he has made it possible for us to understand Cheetahs intimately and he introduced us last year to two seven month old white lion cubs, an experience we will never forget. In the process of entertaining Allen, we had a chance to go back to the Harbor House Restaurant and reacquaint ourselves with the delicious crayfish which uniquely define, together with langoustine, the best of what the ocean brings to Cape Town. By the end of last year, we had become habitual diners at the Harbor House, an ideal, furiously wave-beaten, rocky outcropping suspended at the very edge of False Bay. Good food, quality service and a strategic location at the crusty old fishing harbor of Kalk Bay has, for us, become our favorite venue for entertaining our periodic visitors and indoctrinating them in the seafood varieties and the surf actions of False Bay. One has to imagine an endless glass façade on top of arrays of sharp rocks, against which huge waves and twenty foot swells propelled by wind and ocean come crashing, while enjoying good wine and very fresh sea food.

Seeing Allen and Linda wetted our appetite for wildlife. As we were not scheduled to go on our first safari until the latter part of August, we decided to get an interim wildlife fix by calling the Cheetah Outreach Foundation at the Spier Winery in Stellenbosch. This gave us the opportunity and privilege of playing with the current generation of six week-old cheetah cubs – Felix, Garfield and Heathcliff.

And so July elapsed painlessly. We had settled into our routine and re-visited some of the restaurants we had enjoyed so much last year. We went, of course, to La Colombe, the acknowledged pinnacle of Haute Cuisine in Cape Town. We went back to the Food Barn, where Franck Dangereaux, the erstwhile chef of La Colombe, holds court every Wednesday with a spectacular cooking demonstration, while his restaurant serves the most unforgettable rack of lamb I have ever tasted. And then, of course, we had to re-visit The Boulders restaurant, where the African Penguins have settled and waddle on the rocks within sight of the tables, sharing with us (in spirit) probably the best crayfish on our section of the False Bay coast.

As a normal matter of course, we made plans to attend Wine Dinners held at local hotels and restaurants whenever possible. One was at Grande Roche in Paarl, where we had never been. This is a very luxurious and slick Relais & Chateau hotel, endowed with a reputation for excellence in food and hospitality second to none in the Cape Region. Naturally, this foray had its consequences. Wine dinners have a way stimulating social interactions and side-trips. In this case, we met Jacqueline and Archie, residents of Wellington, yet another wine area just outside of Cape Town. After a lovely evening together, we seemed to have enough in common to take the new-found relationship a step further and indeed, a few weeks later we met again at the Cape Town Waterfront on their “boat”. This turned out to be a 117 foot mine sweeper that Archie and some partners had bought and were in the process of adapting into a hospitality for use in connection with the 2010 World Cup. In other words Archie, who is a real estate developer, now had a very unusual product!

Although back in our seasonal home in Fish Hoek for many weeks now, we are actually not completely settled in yet. Before we returned home to the US last year, we had entrusted Francois Haasbroek, our friend, wine maven and Cellar-Master of the venerable Waterford Wine Estate, with all the wines we could not carry back with us. Indeed we thought our treasure trove would be safe in the custody of such a respected personage. But…TIA (This Is Africa)…When we tried to nail Francois for a dinner date to retrieve our stash, he informed us that our wine was now being held hostage and we have no idea, at this writing, how this story will end! But one thing is sure – I MUST begin shopping for new wines immediately!

Time moves on so quickly, Joyce is in a panic as July and August have passed us by, and the only noteworthy happenings have been a drumbeat of social events that have kept us hopping during the month. We entertained our landlord and the people who manage our rental house, and we were entertained by them in turn. We also made good friends with and spent some pleasant time with Ileana Bravo, of Miami television fame, and Gene, her husband, who were visiting Cape Town as part of their first African vacation. Also, Debra Koch, a former co-worker of Joyce’s, and her family were in Cape Town and we met them for dinner. By the end of August, with time passing so fast, the call of the wild finally manifested itself. And so, on August 25, we left on our first safari adventure.

This involved two destinations. The challenge was to experience the bush without having to change planes in …or even stop in … Johannesburg, whose horrendous airport is the dominant hub for all of South Africa. For years now, it has been a nemesis that will invariably cause major inconvenience, aggravation, pain and suffering, but yet exceedingly difficult to avoid when flying commercial in or out of Cape Town. Since both our safari destinations were in Zululand, the distance from Cape Town was too great to drive, but near enough to reach with a non-stop flight to Durbin, thus avoiding the horrors of the Johannesburg airport. Once in Durbin, a 3 hour drive on good roads would put us within reach of our bush destinations. Yet even that was something we felt to be too tedious for we spoiled brats. That long a drive was simply inconsistent with our commitment to painless travel. We therefore broke the long drive in two, and spent our first night at an oceanfront Fairmont golf Resort, near Port Zimbali, a secluded upscale community on the Indian Ocean. Indeed, it was well insulated from what my elitist wife likes to call “the sweaty masses”. The hospitality was competent and comfortable, but far from the kinds of glitzy standards its San Francisco relative is capable of delivering.

The next day we set out for Mkuze Falls and the game lodge there that was going to be our first safari stop and our home for three nights. The lodge was a well equipped, rustic, thatched roofed building complex with all the trappings of a “great-white-hunter” environment, complete with the ubiquitous antelope horns on the walls, big walk-in fireplace, ready access to wine and liquors and a profusion of coffee table mags and animal sculptures, painting, etc. to wet one’s appetite to see the real thing. The furniture was, as one would expect, very comfortable overstuffed Victoriana and the key point of reference, for those of us who tend to get lost easily, was a full size wood carving of a Zulu warrior standing guard at the entrance of the lodge.

The sleeping accommodations were limited, consisting of only six fairly luxurious chalets with en-suite bathrooms. But then, close by there was also a tented camp, no less comfortable ,but lacking the cachet of a Chalet. Each chalet was sporting – as one gets to expect in higher end safari hospitality – a crow-footed bath tub. Though I have no problem getting into one of these tubs, I cannot say the same for getting out. That’s where my bulk somehow conspires with the slipperiness of the soapy water to frustrate my desperate attempts to stand up and step out of what has morphed from a soothing tub into a watery prison! I feel like a reality show character. Since Joyce, who does not have this ridiculous problem, had disappeared in the bubbles of the tub, reading Harry Potter on her Amazon Kindle, I was left to my own devices. I had no option. It had to be the shower - open to the sky and the great outdoors, outside the “en suite” portion of the bathroom. That’s where, in order to increase the charm of the place and reinforce the illusion of roughing it, one stands in an open, rocky enclosure where a shower head is activated by two knobs, presumably one for hot water and the other for cold. And so, while Madame was luxuriating and reading Harry Potter, I gingerly stepped under the rustic shower. At first, I nearly froze to death, thinking there was no hot water. Then I got scalded and realized that both knobs were needed to reach the right temperature. However, it was only after a heroic struggle with the knobs that it occurred to me that the people who built the roads in South Africa were probably the same people who did the plumbing. LEFT WAS COLD AND RIGHT WAS HOT! I finally did, as the locals say here, sort it out, and I had my shower… interrupted by serious gusts of cold wind that swirled enthusiastically in the stone enclosure. All in all, the chalet was really very nice and cozy, with even a hot water bottle in bed.

What was really spectacular was the location of the lodge and the chalets. It is directly across a ravine where we could have a frontal view of the falls. They must be spectacular when they flow…which happened not to be the case on that day. In fact it is not very clear when they do flow.

The daily routine of the game lodge was unremarkable but not draconian. In fact, it was pleasantly relaxed. There was daylight when we woke up and the sun usually had conveyed all of its intentions for the day by the time the morning game drive got underway. Mkuze falls is relatively close to Phinda, where we had been on safari with Ron Magill from Miami Metrozoo two years ago. We were not surprised, therefore, to see some of the same game. For example, there were a lot of Nyalas, kudus and, of course, impalas. We also encountered a very large pride of lions, and that was amazing. The following night we were kept awake for hours listening to them bellow. There were also lots of elephants, including a huge male which we first observed hanging back some distance, maybe 600 feet, from the herd and our Land Rover, and staring intently in our direction. Now, this was not a pet, nor was it a trained elephant and we had no idea to what extent he was habituated to man and its machines. As I asked these questions to our ranger, Joyce gently taped me on the shoulder. She was holding the camera in a death grip and signaled for me to turn around. When I did, I froze in place. The elephant had closed the distance to the Rover so fast and so quietly that no one, not even the ranger, had noticed. And there I was, cheek to cheek with this humongous creature that seemed on the verge of deciding my fate and that of the others in the Rover. There was a moment of expectant total silence, while the Ranger carefully kept watch on the elephant through the side view mirror. I gingerly whispered to Joyce, who was still gripping the camera, that this would NOT be a good moment to click a picture - not when this monstrous head was staring at us six inches away. Fortunately, our friend had no mean intentions. He needed a scratch! And that’s what he did. He extended his powerful trunk, delicately sniffed the human content of the Rover, then used the roll bar of the Rover as a scratching post…then, for good measure, he placed his gigantic tusks under the Rover’s back bumper as if to see whether he could lift it, and gave it a few taps. Well, he certainly could have lifted it …but fortunately he didn’t! He certainly was the subject of conversation that night and indeed, despite my warnings, Joyce did get a close up of that eye!!! I thought the parting comment from one of our traumatized companions in the Rover really captured the moment and, forgive the awful pun, hit it on the nose, when she exclaimed to the Ranger: “remember - objects in the mirror are closer than they seem”.

The next lodge, still within the Durban orbit, was very different. The Mkuzie Falls terrain was very hilly - almost mountainous. Our next destination brought us to sea level on the banks of Lake St. Lucia, within the iSimangaliso Wetland Park, a World Heritage Site. The park is one of the few unspoiled wilderness beaches, vast wetlands and game reserves, all combined into one reserve. Our home in this environment for two nights was the Makakatana Bay Lodge, a relatively short drive from Mkuzie Falls. The place was attractive and comfortable and, in many respect, consistent with four star hospitality. But this was no sexy safari lodge in the wilderness. As we had spent too much of the day on the road, we only had time for an abbreviated drive into the famous wetlands. Except for the ever-present hippos, who had established permanent residency in those wetlands, there were lots of birds but very little game. The area seemed reminiscent of our Florida Everglades, and it was hard to remember that we were in the middle of Africa.

The next day, we boarded the Makakatana land Rover for what we assumed would be the normal morning game drive. To our surprise, we found our guide-ranger-driver busy covering up the open area with protective sheathing. He explained that the day was a “bit windy” and, as were going to the Hluhluwe Imfolozi Game reserve, which is better than an hour away from the lodge, we would need some protection from the weather. By the time we got to the game park, there was no question about a protracted game drive. It was too windy; the animals were all in hiding and had all but completely disappeared. And so, instead of the usual morning coffee break and the traditional outdoor bush breakfast, we found our way to the lodge on top of the mountain, with its gift shop and a remarkably well stocked breakfast buffet. The beauty of this strategy was that all this was at the highest point of the park, so we could enjoy, indoors, the dramatic views of the region as well as that of the weather closing in on us. Like a reminder of what bad mountain weather could be like, this prompted our ranger to bring us back to sea level, as we were at least an hour and a half away from the lodge. Before leaving the Park, however, not far from the exit gate complex, we ran into a white rhino that completely ignored the Land Rover, and kept ambling back and forth across the road, focused on a far more important activity - he was marking his territory by strategically spraying his urine to entice potential mates and guard his territory. After a while, actually what seemed like a very long while, with Joyce’s camera clicking away so that not a millimeter of rhino escaped imaging, we finally exited the park and closed our Makakatana experience.

By mid-September, we had recovered from our Zululand safaris. There were not many whales yet in False Bay, but at least we did not have to unpack our safari gear, as our next safari adventure was beckoning. This one, in Zambia, was scheduled to cover the second week of September and include our friend Carol Crowe and her friend Pat Fay. We had barely a week to get ready for the trip and prepare the house for Carol, who would return to Cape Town with us for an additional week. Carol’s husband, Bill, did not want to join her on safari for reasons far too complex and unrelated to this travel tale. Fortunately for Carol, Bill was not the only one in their circle of friends who did not fully appreciate the joys of safari adventures. Bill and Carol’s friend, Pete Fay, also preferred to stay back in their North Carolina golf and country club paradise, so it was decided that his wife Pat would beat the bush and its wildlife into submission with Carol. Pat planned to return to the US after the safari.

To get to Zambia, we had to fly to Johannesburg, leaving from Cape Town’s domestic terminal at the crack of dawn. In Johannesburg, we would schlep our carry-on luggage to the International terminal and there submit to passport and Visa control as well as security and boarding pass control … thereby having to repeat the security procedures we had followed prior to our Cape Town departure. Only then were we allowed to board our flight to Lusaka, Zambia. Carol and Pat were to meet us, if by some miracle everything came off as planned, in the Johannesburg international boarding lobby. Miracle of miracles, it all came off as planned! Pat, Carol, Joyce and I were all on the same plane with the same airline going to the same place at the same time. When we reached Lusaka, our careers as bewildered waifs in the labyrinthine maze of the Johannesburg air hub came to a very welcomed end. We were met upon arrival by the representatives of Sefofane, the air charter company connected with Wilderness Safaris, which owns or manages over 60 tented camps including Kapinga where we would stay for three days. The transition from commercial to general aviation was, as usual, delightful. One gets to be up-close and personal with the pilot, as the five-seater Cessnas are obviously tiny compared to the pressurized behemoth metal tubes within which commercial flight passengers are always jammed. They are slower and noisier, but this is more than offset by the intimacy with which the charter planes manage their service and the fact that the mission of everybody connected with the flight - both on the ground and in the air - is to serve you personally. In contrast, the culture of commercial aviation, regardless of the price or the class of your ticket, usually turns out to hold you hostage to a set of esoteric regulations, usually draconically enforced, that exist more to satisfy the airline company’s corporate and political risk management policies than the passenger’s needs and comforts!

And so, without further belaboring this painful subject, we enjoyed our one and a half hour ride in the little Cessna and, after circling around a huge mountain partially cloaked in clouds, the diaphanous curtain opened and the ground revealed itself, allowing us to catching a glimpse of the mighty Zambezi River. It was magic! The plane came to ground safely, despite teeth rattling noises, on an unpaved, almost improvised, landing strip that had been carved through the bush. Evidently, the pilot did a good job in circling the strip since, unlike on another occasion, we were not greeted by a reception committee of warthogs and elephants. Instead, a Land Rover was waiting for us with Beki, who would be our guide. He was not only the driver of the Rover, but he turned out to be our ranger, guide, naturalist, caterer and bottle washer during our three day stay at our first Zambia safari destination, Chiawa Camp. Beki decanted us from the tiny Cessna and installed us on the Rover, which henceforth would be our safari transportation during our stay. He then drove us to the camp where we were assigned to our respective tents. This was our second visit to Chiawa. The Managers, Michaele and Jason, remembered us from our first stay. But this time, having been stung by Michaele’s rapier-like humor last year, I was on my guard; I would not be entrapped a second time and allow her to take advantage of my somewhat lethargic wits, addled by too much flying! I didn’t get even, but I could not help recalling that moment when we came to Chiawa the first time. I had seen this gigantic skull exhibited on the Lodge’s platform. I thought it might have come from an elephant or a hippo, so I asked her what it was and, without a second’s hesitation and without missing a step in the direction she was walking, she answered over her shoulder: “warthog”, leaving it to my imagination to visualize the size that warthog must have reached!

Joyce had thoroughly cased the camp during our first visit and knew exactly the tent she wanted. It was the “one with the shower in the tree”. The idea was very cute and she got her wish. But there were two problems: One was the fact that the tent was the farthest one from the lodge, necessitating a pretty long walk to and from the center of camp. The other was that for all its charms, neither one of us could find the Tree Shower’s controls. We eventually sorted it out, and found the faucets, hidden I know not how, inside the trunk of the tree, and we were even able to sort out the left cold/right hot faucets of the shower installation … but it sure fooled the baboons that checked us out every hour on the hour! Other than that, the tents were quite luxurious and comfortable. The camp was situated on the shore of the Zambezi River and, as we were the farthest tent in the camp, we were sleeping closer than anyone else to the hippos, elephants, crocs, antelopes … as well as warthogs, baboons and other critters that populate this region of the African Bush.

The marvel of Chiawa is that it is located on the Zambezi River. The genius of its development and activity programs is that they take full advantage of this position. Thus, our first activity upon arrival was to board a motorized flat boat, an aluminum raft-like affair, where we enjoyed navigating against the current for a while looking at wildlife on the shore, where we saw not only what we expected, namely curious elephants and gigantic crocs, but amazingly, a young solitary lion! In and on the water, we saw the ubiquitous hippos that seem to control the river’s right of way and a wide variety of water-based birds. We had the distinct feeling that the river was alive and ready to welcome us.

And so this little initial promenade on the water prior to sunset was our first taste of what was to come. The flat boat floated back downstream, in the direction of Victoria Falls, which were too far for us to see or reach, but not so far as to sense the power of the river’s current that was tugging at the boat. After sundowners of gin and tonic on the raft, we assembled on the lodge’s veranda for our night game drive. Everybody piled in the safari vehicle, an open Land Rover with four rows of seats, including the front row for the ranger/driver. As usual, energized by our alcoholic sundowners, we all were in a state of high expectation, hoping to catch sight of a hunting leopard or perhaps a kill! After more than two hours of brutally bumping along on muddy and completely unpaved paths through the bush, however, our reward was nothing as dramatic. Just as we were getting really bored with this exercise, the ranger suddenly stopped the Rover, a hush fell over us, the spotter extinguished his powerful spotlight and, finally, as we all held our breath, the ranger lowered his field glasses and excitedly informed us that he had seen…a porcupine! Indeed, he had. It was fast and awkwardly moved toward an overgrown part of the bush where it disappeared, never to be seen again. In all fairness, we also had a glimpse of a genet or some other small cat-like creature that failed to stay out of the ranger’s light beam.

We next expected to see the camp lights, have a shower and a very welcome dinner at the lodge. Alas, on that particular night, instead of returning to camp to “chimp” (the act of going “ooo, ooo, ahhhh”) over our photos of the porcupine or the genet, we suddenly emerged into a torch and fire lit, cliff-surrounded clearing, known as a Boma. The camp staff was there at work, preparing and serving buffet-style what turned out to be a meal of local and bush specialties worthy of the highest kudus (pun intended) in the region! They didn’t wear toques, but they might as well have. It was so elegant and at the same time genuinely wild that we were filled with awe and wonder. The element of surprise was perfect! The entire scene was somehow reminiscent of a Walpurgis Night ritual, where the drama of the setting enhances the food experience and produces a sense of mystical happening.

The next day we assumed would be fairly routine - a morning game drive, a copious breakfast at the lodge around the campfire, preceded, somewhat earlier by rusks and coffee. After that, lunch at the lodge or on the raft, then the afternoon siesta. Then a choice between another game drive or canoe safari on the Zambezi. Well it wasn’t routine! We never got very far during our morning game drive. Shortly after seeing an enormous herd of elephants, we got stuck at a real live soap opera cum porn festival involving a lioness hussy of a “certain” age, trying her best to seduce and eventually completely exhaust a young male. Just in case he failed to satisfy the old “cougar”, as Joyce called her, two other would-be interlopers watched and waited, one of whom quickly skulked away when threatened by the chosen male! The enthralled audience assembled on the Rover immediately dubbed the ambitious coward “Fast Freddy”. He slinked off into the bush, and we never saw him again … but his reputation lives on. The thing about watching lions copulate is that it takes a lot of time. Although each act only takes a matter of seconds, they “do it” every twenty minute or so … Joyce timed it carefully … around the clock - and they keep at it for three or four days, giving up everything, even hunting and eating! When we returned the next day to the scene of the debauchery, I asked the clearly exhausted male: “How do you feel, old man?”… he did not answer.

After lunch, it was time to get back on the river for an afternoon canoe safari. First, we boarded the motorized aluminum raft and motored up stream for about an hour until we reached an inlet on the Zambezi River. Our aquatic guide, a very handsome camp senior staffer in charge of everything that had to do with the river and its users, turned out to be the spitting image of Will Smith. Joyce, Carol and Pat immediately called him “Will” and he did not seem to mind one bit. On the shore there were four canoes waiting for us. One was assigned to Joyce as the photographer of the expedition with Will as the pilot. I got the next one with, appropriately, the camp’s bartender; Carol and Pat took a three-man canoe with Beki, our driver and land-based ranger as their navigator. The fourth canoe, piloted by yet another camp staffer, was occupied by a couple on their honeymoon, determined to prove to the world that love will conquer all, even the fearsome crocs and hippos of the Zambezi! Before venturing on the inlet, “Will” gave us the safety lecture. We had heard it all before when, a few years ago, we canoed the very same river without a ranger or guide in the boat. I had to paddle by myself, Joyce naturally steered and the wind did all the work - pushing us relentlessly into the bank where all the crocs were waiting! Despite the scary lecture enumerating all the things that could go wrong, we called on our innate courage and fortitude and allowed ourselves to be paddled in line formation along the outlet, knowing that after two hours or so of downstream floating we would wind up either someplace near the camp or at the bottom of the Zambezi.

Actually, this turned out to be a delightful experience. The fact that someone other than me was in charge of the canoe and that we were surrounded by a wealth of experts on the river and its wildlife made all the difference. We also enjoyed the birds, as the inlet was really a lagoon in its relation to the main river, and for that reason it offered a great habitat for an endless variety of storks as well as Fish Eagles, raptors, egrets, Kingfishers and other aquatic birds. There was a dark note, however, in all of this. Someplace in the placid waters of the inlet there lived, like the Minotaur in its labyrinth, a huge hippo known for his bad disposition. He was called “Uncle Bob” by the locals, in honor of Robert Mugabe. We were all a bit nervous as Beki ever so delicately paddled through Uncle Bob’s territory. Fortunately, nothing happened and it wasn’t long before the lagoon rejoined the river and we were able to get out of our canoes feeling like we had conquered another piece of Africa.

Alas, it was a pyrrhic victory. Sure we got back safely to the camp’s lounge but we couldn’t get to our tent. Seems that three pachyderms of monstrous proportions were blocking the way. They were carefully casing the place, delicately checking everything out as if looking for some sort of contraband. They moved on to the camp fire circle, carefully stepping around the field tables and seating … and then they went away without disturbing anything. Later, we learned that the trio habitually made a daily visit and had, in their own way, adopted the camp; they were like pets, but they were also completely wild and untrained. This is what made it such an amazing experience. The camp staff had given them names and easily recognized them. One was called “Raggedy” because of a frayed ear flap, another was recognized by an uneven tusk and the third, “Grumpy” was named for his cranky disposition.

The next day, after effuse farewells to our Chiawa Camp hosts, we met our trusty little Cessna at the landing strip. The plane took us on an hour and a half flight from the Lower Zambazi National Park, north and west to the Kafue National Park, where our next safari destination was located. When we reached the National Park, the Cessna crunched and rattled down an improvised, unpaved landing strip - the Busanga Plains Airport. This was not our first experience in the Busanga Plains. Two years ago, we had stayed at a sister camp, Shumba. It was a memorable experience, not so much for the wildlife, of which there was plenty, but more for the superb taste that had been exhibited in the design of the lodge and the platforms that worked as a matrix elevating the entire camp above harm’s way.

Of course, by this time, we had all gotten used to this kind of landing. Yet this was different. Our welcoming committee for Kapinga Camp, our safari destination, was neither warthogs, elephants or any other wildlife from the neighborhood. Nor was there a safari camp ranger waiting for us in a Land Rover to carry our bags and drive us into camp. Instead, we were greeted by a shiny, slick, very modern helicopter, piloted by a rakish great-white-hunter type. The girls immediately started drooling and chimping, having decided that the pilot bore an unmistakable resemblance to the actor Russell Crow! In fact, they got so exited that the next day, Joyce and Carol booked the helicopter and Russell Crow for an aerial safari. Pat stayed back demurely and I did not want to interfere with the passionate ride in the bush that seemed afoot. As Joyce tells it, it was an exiting ride, with the machine flying so low over the terrain that Russell Crow called the maneuver “the magic carpet ride”. The helicopter was amazingly quiet, comfortable and it was fast. We can only wish that the use of this mode of transportation acquires more extensive popularity and that can become more affordable and prevalent in “beating around the bush”.

The helicopter dropped us literally in the center of Kapinga Bush Camp. This was truly luxury travel. Not only was the helipad within walking distance of the central camp fire, but there were only four luxury safari tents accommodating a maximum of eight guests. We could be assured therefore of an exceptional level of personal attention. And indeed that’s what we received. Sam was our ranger-driver-spotter and all around Jack of all trades, bush knowledge and wisdom.

This time, our tent was the first one from the lodge, unlike Chiawa where we had to hike along a dozen tents to reach the fascinating tree shower that landed us into the outermost orbit of the camp. The Kapinga tent itself was better organized. It was easier to find things and the brass fittings on the sinks and faucets endowed the place with a touch of luxury that felt good after a day in the bush. The real contrast to Chiawa, however, was found in the fact that this was not a riverine environment. As the name of the area clearly implies, we were in a vast floodplain and wetlands. Kafue National Park measures over 8,700 square miles and stretches as far as the eye can see from the lodge’s viewing platform. As during our first visit to the area, game viewing was less abundant than Chiawa. However, this was offset by the fact that the animals were less habituated to the human presence and indeed, the Rovers and their engines were noticed. This added a special spice to the encounters. We knew that this would last for only a limited time. Right now this was mostly pristine territory!

Actually, as the game drives would reveal, there was plenty of life, not only on the plains in the wetland but in the riverine woodlands that border the plains. In the water and in the air there was a full catalogue of aquatic birds ranging from tiny Bee Eaters to large Goliath storks. On land, with more than 150 species recorded, mammals are equally diverse. We encountered large concentrations of antelopes, including pukus and lechwes which are all over the place. We also saw a fair amount of larger game such as beautiful roans and hartebeests. On the less handsome scale, we found lots of wildebeests and Cape Buffalo. We did not see many predators, however. Despite the unlimited free running space, we did not spot any cheetahs. Leopards were, as usual, invisible and the few lions we saw were busy doing what they do best – sleeping and mating! We did see some elephants, but we had no up-close encounters with them … another place, another time.

On the second day of our stay at Kapinga, we drove to a place where the wetlands had created a kind of reedy and weedy lake. It was a place particularly well suited for wallowing hippos and crocodiles, sunning themselves in the hopes of snapping up some hapless prey without moving. After dismounting from the Rover, Sam led us to a motorized aluminum row boat and took us for a spin on the water. For a while, everything went well. We went past a large pod of hippos that were lazily snoozing in a pile at one end of the waterway and, except for periodically raising their heads above water like a peripatetic periscope, they left us alone. The crocs seemed happy with their eternal siesta. It was a scene from the Garden of Eden. In fact, it was so peaceful that Sam revved up the outboard on the rowboat in quest of a change of scenery. All of a sudden, there was a bump and then we were airborne! What had happened turned out to be the event of the day. Sam had inadvertently driven the boat OVER this gigantic submerged hippo. Like an air boat skimming the waters in Florida’s Everglades, his boat glided on top of the hippo, going up one side and immediately sliding off the other one. Amazingly, nothing happened to either us or the hippo, though I would not recommend this as a new bush sport.

By the time we left Kapinga, we were very happy, but also thoroughly “bushed out”. The heli ride was as thrilling leaving as it was coming in and, of course, Joyce and Carol had another Russell Crow fix. The Cessna met us and, in the course of the flight to Livingston, where we would connect to Johannesburg, then Cape Town, the pilot, after much pleading, acceded to Joyce and Carol’s wishes and was able to get tower clearance for a small but exciting aerial excursion over Victoria Falls. However, Carol’s insatiable lust for adventure had not yet sublimated. She and Pat spent two nights in Livingston to explore Victoria Falls and presumably run into Stanley there. After that, Carol would complete her African adventure by indulging in a particularly hazardous maneuver - she would spend a week as our guest in Cape Town.

In the process, we gave her the Royal Tour. We spent two nights in supreme splendor and pampered comfort at “La Residence” in Franschhoek, where Liz Biden had transformed a vineyard manor house into Versailles - where, as Joyce has concluded, Elton John meets Louis XIV at the Buddha Bar, merging their respective talents to create one of the most eclectic environments on the face of the earth. This was our second stay there, and the place was as extraordinary now as it was then. We dined, among other places, at Reuben’s, where the Chef by that name has been acclaimed as the top chef in all of South Africa… and perhaps beyond. Her visit also made it possible to return once again to Cheetah Outreach and show the cubs to Carol! They were now nearly 5 months old and twice the size from what we had experienced a short while ago. But they were as cute and rambunctious as ever, full of play and energy. Yet we could also sense that they would be a handful and an awesome responsibility if one were charged with their training…particularly when they are fully grown. Carol also got a fairly good whale fix – while the whales have not been as prevalent as last year, we spotted some very close to shore while driving home from an errand and, like everyone else on the road, pulled over, parked illegally, and watched them play. We also took the Water Taxi, a small boat painted yellow and black to resemble a NY cab, which not only goes from Kalk Bay to Simons Town each hour, but has a skipper who is known as a “the whale magnet”. True to his nick name, we spent almost 2 hours on the bay watching the whales play around us.

After Carol left, we had about 10 days to get ready for more house guests. We were scheduled to pick up Joyce Klein (“Joyce-The-Travel-Agent”) and her husband Danny at the Blue Train upon its arrival in Cape Town. After struggling to find the rail depot, we had a magic week showing our travel agents the ins and outs of our “Hurricane Evacuation” retreat. It was truly a role reversal. As they had been to Cape Town many times, we showed them the things only locals find in our little paradise, including the Water Taxi, all our favorite restaurants and an overnight in Stellenbosch so they could experience our very favorite restaurant at the Rust en Vrede Wine Estate. They were the perfect houseguests – they were willing to do anything! We loved doing it and stand ready to do it again.

By the time Joyce “The Travel Agent” and Danny left, our stay in South Africa had shrunk to less than 3 weeks to do all of the things that remained on our “Cape Town Must-Do List”. For us, this list is sort of like a Jack Nicholson “Bucket List”, as we are always afraid that we might never come back to Africa. Indeed, the list is heavy on fun, but also contains a few of the more unpleasant necessities that ex-pats have to deal with. Not everything comes up roses down here. So, first the not-so-much-fun stuff. Basically, we had to struggle with three issues.
The first was whether the 2010 World Cup Soccer Tournament next June and July, for which Cape Town has been awarded the honor of being the Host City, would so overwhelm all the services and facilities as to turn the place into a chaotic zoo. We already knew from what we saw on TV and the printed media that soccer fans suffered from the same riotous craze and out-of-control madness as those enamored with bull fighting, gladiatorial combat and other such forms of spectator-driven mass recreation.

Our fears and trepidations were somewhat laid to rest by the fact that the bulk of the action would actually be spread in many South African locations, not only Cape Town. Additionally, the expectation is that “our” coast, False Bay, has always been the quiet and subdued environment for visitors as opposed to Camps Bay on the Atlantic on the other side of the mountain. The latter bears a lot of the “chi-chi” characteristics of Miami’s South Beach. In fact, Camps Bay is one of the main venues for postgame reveling and fracas, as the stadium is very close by. Only one aspect of this issue remains. Will we be able to get a reasonable flight or will the airlines make life impossible for us? Stay tuned!

The second issue, equally overwhelming, is the rental of our house here. Like a universal law of human nature, we were advised, presumably in consideration of good tenant behavior, that our rent would be raised by about 15%. Voila! We have been assured that this has nothing to do with the World Cup. Again… stay tuned!

The third issue was the one that may well “break the camel’s back”. Each year, we routinely receive, upon arrival at the airport, a three month Visa from the Republic of South Africa. We were advised that at the end of the three months, the visitor’s Visa had to be extended to cover the additional time we intended to stay in the country. The first year, we only stayed 3 months. Last year, we dutifully followed instructions and reported to a dirty, smelly somewhat decrepit, aging branch office of “Home Affairs”, located in a suburban community called Wynberg, which proudly displayed the logo of the Republic of South Africa. We then found where to wait for the next official to review the documents (application, passports, financial statement, visa fee, local contact information, etc.), that would entitle us to the extension of our Visa. The whole process required about one and a half hours and we got our “stamp”. This was a somewhat depressing experience, but really quite tolerable.

This was last year. This year was different. In August, we had cheerfully presented ourselves to the same Home Affairs Office that had processed our visa extension last year. We filled out our application and provided all of the financial and contact information and paid our visa extension fee. Only after we paid were we told that this branch of the Home Affairs Office was being discontinued, that they could not issue the extension, but that the application and its related documents would be transferred to the main office, where they would be ready in about 30 days and all we needed to do was to call to find out before going in! We knew this could not end well!

And so, after 30 days, we made our first visit to the main office of the Home Affairs Department. Franz Kafka had painted a picture that came close to conveying our experience in his literary master piece called “Trial”, written around 1870. He shows how a totalitarian regime, choking under mountains of dusty bureaucratic papers, victimizes a hapless soul who just needs answers to very simple innocent questions. Joyce had called to find out if the visa extension was ready to be issued or if the paperwork had even been transferred. She drew a blank and was advised that she had to come in; no information could be given out over the phone. She tried without success to make an appointment, but like in a Kafkaesque situation, the answer always came back the same: she had to come in! That was just the beginning of the odyssey.

When our GPS found the building, we first had to bribe what they euphemistically call a “Parking Marshall”, as parking is limited to 60 minutes in a “wheel clamping zone” and we instinctively knew that wasn’t going to happen. We then pushed through the thick motley crowd until we reached the Home Affairs Building. The Central Office of Home Affairs is located in the “City Bowl”…which I like to call the “City Bowel”. The building is even more decrepit and ill-maintained than its Wynberg counterpart, and it looks institutional. Some of its façade’s decorative elements betrayed the deplorable condition of the building by the filth that had invaded every nook and cranny of the structure. We made it through the first floor doors, taking care to dutifully sign-in. Once the guard was clear on the fact that we were not terrorists, we were told that visas and work permits were on the second floor. This is the equivalent of three floors up, since the ground floor is not street level but actually one floor up. Like in what Kafka wrote, the staircase to reach the second floor seemed endless, and almost monumental if it had not been so decrepit. At the second floor, the stairs opened into a scene from bedlam.

We were in a square room roughly a hundred feet on each side. The walls were dirty and, with the exception of a few official signs, they were completely and depressingly bare. The signs on these walls purported to give instructions to applicants so that, god forbid, there would never be a possibility that any of the drones who worked there would be called upon to help or, god forbid, even open their mouths and articulate an answer to a question. A counter ran along the length of one of the walls and behind it there were seats. But no one was sitting there. Important looking, mostly enormously fat black women, some with metal badges, others without, moved with a shuffling strut in and out of mysterious doors that betrayed the presence of other rooms or offices beyond the counter, not open to the public. In almost every case, these women were carrying 16 inch cardboard boxes, presumably containing documents relating to the lucky few applicants that were waiting with the rest of the rabble. The public seating in the room consisted of a crazy assortment of improvised folding chairs, dirty couches losing their stuffing and used seats of all kinds, too filthy and beaten up to make it in the worst conceivable junk yard.

We kept hearing repeatedly the same two questions from the people in the room: “where is my file?” and “Where is the queue?” You might as well find the answer to the first question on the moon…or maybe in one of these cardboard boxes the disinterested staff kept dredging from the mystery space behind the counter. As to the second question, there really was no queue, or even a discernable “system” that might give a clue about the order in which applicants would be called. The room was also heating up as the morning approached noon, and the rising temperature, combined with the increasing number of applicants in the room, made it stink like a pig sty. To round out this charming ambience, there was always at least one baby crying or having an unrequited tantrum. And, of course, we had to witness some maniac or crazed “applicant” loose it altogether, and throw a colorful fit, screaming bloody murder as he was being escorted out of the room by the building security. No, they did not shoot him, in spite of Zuma’s (the Zulu President of the Republic of South Africa) public admonition to his police to shoot first and protect themselves during a civil disturbance. Hovering above all this, protected behind the counter, an obviously high ranking official, who I immediately dubbed “the General” because he sported two gold stars on his shirt, made an appearance from behind the scene and disappeared again; evidently quite pleased at the way things were going.

Well they did not go well. After about an hour or two of waiting, the person Joyce had struggled to collar when we first arrived to get action on our visa, told us, instead of answering our questions about the whereabouts and status of our filed and paid-for visa application, that it wasn’t ready and we needed to call for an appointment before coming back! This was said in an authoritarian manner that left no room for discussion. Nevertheless, as we had reached a dead-end Joyce argue vehemently, whereupon the official turned on his heels, told us that we would be called in a day or so when the visa was ready, and he disappeared, never to be seen again, into the no-man’s land behind the counter! We left completely dejected and utterly frustrated. While we still had time, we had to have the visa extension, as we did not want to be caught with this problem at the airport, as the fines for not complying are really draconian and the ensuing argument that Joyce would surely have with the officials would probably make us miss our connection.

A few weeks later, now sporting the status of “illegal aliens”, as our visas had expired, completely shocked and surprised that we hadn’t heard from anyone??!!), we again tried to reach these people by phone. It took an hour to get through to someone. Joyce finally got a supervisor, and was told that we had to come in – AGAIN, as no one was allowed to call us, and no information can be given over the phone! But this time, Joyce had a name, and she said we could ask for her and she would try to help us.

So, back into the bowels of the city we went, bribed another parking marshal, past the check point, up the endless stairs and into the room with the decrepit seats. Joyce asked for the lady she had talked to on the phone and, of course, she was not available. Explaining what we needed to someone she caught on the run behind the counter, we were told to have a seat and someone would find our file and application. So I sat, while Joyce stayed stubbornly up at the counter, asking everyone who came out of the hidden back rooms for help, for maybe two hours. Eventually, everybody in our row of chairs had gotten some sort of help…But not us! We continued waiting. Apparently, we were in the way, having graduated to the front row of the seating area, so we were told to get up and move to the back!!! This was getting outrageous and I was fomenting dire scenarios for cutting through this…like calling our Special Forces to mount a military operation to extract us from the country.

Joyce, however, was the voice of reason. Indeed, her solution had to do with extraction, but it was the “General” she had managed to extract from the mystery land behind the counter. He and Joyce disappeared for a short while so she could prepare a new visa application - they would never admit they had lost it and that was the problem all along, and they proceeded to process the new application forthwith. In the meantime, I had passed the time in conversations with equally frustrated fellow applicants. This was actually fascinating, as it had the potential seeds of theatric production. The characters were certainly there…a large room full of them. In our immediate corner, a gorgeous, well dressed black lady from London, there for the “Entertainment Season”, explained her problems to us. I couldn’t understand a word she was saying; Joyce, always perceptive about those things, pointed out to me that the pretty lady was a high-priced hooker and completely stoned! That was the emissary from the Common Wealth. Germany was also represented in our immediate group of applicants. He was unabashedly pure German, spoke emphatically with a German accent and he expressed his frustration by repeating, like a mantra, the fact that he could not fathom the utter disorganization and chaos of the place, suggesting, as if anyone would care, that they should get a computer to sort the mess out and bring Order here. He was, in other words, quite poetically the antithesis of this place, sitting there waiting to get a Work Permit!

Eventually, Joyce met with success. She reappeared holding the visa extension. Only one, hopefully minor, concern remains. They put the wrong date on the visa. This was corrected the old fashion way, by crossing out the mistake and writing in the correct information on the passports, and the General assured us that it would be OK. I wished my German friend could have seen this, but he had just found out that he had been waiting for over an hour … in the wrong place!

A week or so later, as we were still in shock over the treatment we had received, we found out that the “Department of Home Affairs” was also the bureaucracy in charge of South Africa’s Municipalities and the Housing Programs that have been so extraordinarily mismanaged for 15 years now. Its bailiwick is incredibly vast, encompassing the policies governing the oceans of shanty-towns, euphemistically called Townships that ring every city and community. The scale of the problem is so gargantuan that no one has even made a dent in trying to develop solutions. As such, the business of getting visas, work permits and other such relatively minor matters are relegated to the backwater of the horrendous South African bureaucracy and enjoy no priority of concern whatsoever.

Joyce has sworn that she will never go through this again. If Joyce (the travel agent) cannot find a way to get us a four month visa before we leave the US, my Joyce will swear off South Africa, and the Republic will be deprived of her presence…FOREVER! Stay tuned…
Now, for the fun stuff on the To-Do/Bucket List:
Friday morning we got up feeling optimistic about sorting out all of the above and in a good mood. It was an absolutely beautiful day. We decided, on the spur of the moment, to have lunch at “Terroir”, the fabulous restaurant at Stellenbosch that rivals “La Colombe” at the Constantia Uitzig Winery in Cape Town. Like La Colombe, Terroir is part of a wine estate, Kleine Zalze. Among its many other fine wines, it is known for one of the best Sauvignon Blanc in the region. We sat outside on the manicured grounds and for two hours we had one of these outrageous luncheons the wine farms do so well. It was an exquisite meal impeccably served in a setting evocative of the “Sound of Music”. It was a magic and idyllic setting with working vineyards in the foreground and green fields full of flowers in the background, extending to the foot of the spectacular, tall, craggy rock formations that frame the bucolic scenery. HOW COULD WE EVEN CONSIDER NOT COMING BACK???!!!

But the day was far from done. When we had gone to Grande Roche for a delightful Wine Dinner earlier in our stay, the wine being featured was from the Winery of Good Hope in in Stellenbosch, not far from Kleine Zalze. This is a relatively new winery, but one with very long and impeccable antecedents in blending and wine making. Winery of Good Hope is considered by many as one of the best producer of Chenin Blanc, a wine (and grape) which I have never appreciated. Until that night, I always turned my nose up at the mere mention of this Cinderella wine. But no more! A Swedish bundle of energy named Mia was the impresario for the evening and masterfully paired the food with the wine, demonstrating in very substantive ways, the virtues of the Winery of Good Hope’s products.

After our midday feast, Joyce had called Mia to see if we could stop by the Winery. She greeted us like old friends and escorted us on one of the most extensive tours of a winery I had ever experienced. She even allowed us in the sacred blending hall, where the winery’s secrets are concocted and tested. Naturally, we were guinea pigs and tasted our way through every stage of the wine’s metamorphosis from a fairly harsh-tasting brew into the nectar of the gods, which is the end product of the blending process. By the end of the afternoon, we had tasted an enormous quantity of wine. As we staggered out of the winery, feeling very light and giddy, one thought dominated: HOW COULD WE EVEN CONSIDER NOT COMING BACK”???!!!!

Then Saturday, we went to one of the weekend Neighborhood Markets, this one at a place called the Old Biscuit Mill. It’s located in a nearly anonymous neighborhood – one that has failed to reveal a recognizable identity, where factory outlets are mixed with used merchandise of all sorts – yet within sight of Table Mountain and only a few kilometers from the upscale shops of the Waterfront. It is quintessentially Cape Town – amazing surprises to be found, but never taking itself too seriously. There we found an assortment of gourmet foods for sale and tasting, hundreds of people and their dogs wandering around (the dogs were shopping for ostrich bone chews, sold by the resident pet supply merchant), and eggs benedict and pink champagne, served by the Bistro, a small booth whose sign had caught fire and burned up, which is the outreach of La Colombe, recently awarded the honor of being named one of the top 100 restaurants in the world – at a cost of less than $10 per person! HOW COULD WE EVEN CONSIDER NOT COMING BACK”???!!!!

Finally, our friends Carol and Stan Berger called to say they were back from 2 months in Europe and would be in Cape Town next weekend, so we will have a chance to see them again before we leave. And Jacqueline and Archie, whom we met at the Grande Roche, are coming for dinner later in the week. HOW COULD WE EVEN CONSIDER NOT COMING BACK”???!!!!