There I was: An American in the coach-class, upper-deck nose of a 747 bound for Johannesburg from JFK in August 2001, ignoring the turbulence of recent headlines: “South Africa: The Per Capita Murder, Assault, Rape and Carjacking Capitol of the World”, or “BMW Flamethrower Deters Armed Carjackings”. No, something else had me tossing and turning on the 16-hour flight: I had booked this trip to come live for several months with my long-distance love, Petru, but before I climbed up the “nose-stairs” of this wide-body, she had called it off. I put my entire life in NYC on hold to make something real with Petru; now, I was taking a different kind of leap, 7500 miles across the Atlantic with nothing but providence awaiting me at Arrivals.I found a small hotel from an airport phone book, rolled my large bag into a taxi, and traveled 38 minutes west past open fields and crowded townships to the decidedly quaint Linden Hotel. I had time but not a clue how I’d spend it. A Norwegian couple at the hotel mentioned a little safari they had booked: 26 days through six Southern African countries. “Much too long for a safari”, I thought. The next day, I booked it. I would be in the bush, and incommunicado, through most of September 2001.
On an extended overland safari, there are long periods of staring at flora through floor-to-roof windows. Burned by a personal relationship, I found the Baobab trees and bush fires a natural salve. Eventually, the human company of my fellow safari-mates - two Norwegians, two Germans, four Dutch, one Australian, one Belgian, another American, and our South African guide – helped, and I slowly warmed to the odd camaraderie of waking at 4:30am, packing your tent, and bouncing along the unpaved dustiness of the new day’s itinerary.
But a long safari can expose harsh reality: When we stopped to eat lunch, villagers in the area - sometimes 50 or more - would rush to the truck, desperate for any offer of food. Our “roughing it” safari was luxurious compared to the rural struggle endured daily in much of sub-Saharan Africa. We were a window-display of white, Western wealth amidst hunger and poverty.
One warm Tuesday afternoon, along the Luangwa River in Zambia, Eddie, the 64-year-old Belgian, walked up to me with a short-wave radio in his hand. He translated a French broadcast: The towers of the World Trade Center had been hit by airplanes, and come down. For two weeks, I would hear only snippets of the horror in New York. From that moment, I would forget my personal heartache; my safari-mates would end their teasing of “the American”; and every Passport Control border agent would see my nationality, and offer condolences. Homesick as I was, I was surrounded by comfort. Strangely, I stopped feeling sorry for myself, or for “locals”, and began to re-engage with each moment. The world was desperate and dangerous, but wide, and full of love.
