Serengeti National Park
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
I awake on Wednesday to discover that my little hut no longer has running water. Surprisingly, it’s not that big a deal. After all, I haven’t been able to drink tap water or even bush my teeth with it since crossing the Atlantic. But now the toilet won’t flush and I’ll be damned if I’m going to pour bottled water into it.
I step out my front door into the pre-dawn darkness and wave my flashlight around for a few minutes until a security dude shows up to escort me to breakfast. When one arrives, I don’t bother complaining about the water; we learned yesterday that these guys don’t speak English. Being escorted, therefore, is a pantomime. We point in the direction we want to go, and the guards nod obligingly and take the lead. They stop at every fork and intersection, turn around expectantly and wait for us to point again. It's like guiding a guide dog. And yet somehow we're the mzungus.
I encounter Deirdre at the foot of the long stone stairway leading to the elevated dining room. About halfway up the steps we look at each other and chuckle, each one knowing what the other is thinking. “We just climbed Mount Kilimanjaro,” she says, getting there first. “How embarrassing to be a little out of breath!” As it happens, Zara is preparing to build a new dining hall at ground level. Many of their guests are elderly and quite a few of them have been arriving for meals panting and clutching their chests. Not good.
As my fellow safari-goers greet each other and settle in at our table we discover that almost no one had water pressure this morning. Deirdre informs the manager, who comes to our table and apologizes to the whole group, explaining that a little family of elephants wandered through camp last night and stomped the supply lines flat. He assures us that we will all have water again by lunchtime.
This news changes the whole demeanor of the group. “Ooooo!” we coo with delight. “Elephants!” Less than a minute ago we were slightly disgruntled hotel patrons with a complaint worthy of a star-deduction on Yelp, and with a single sentence the manager transformed us into charmed, wide-eyed “Innocents Abroad.” What was once a First World annoyance has become, in just a few seconds, an enchanting adventure story to tell back in the States: “…and we didn’t have water one morning because a family of elephants walked right through camp!”
I hate to admit this, but I am skeptical about the elephant story. It seems impossible to me that a whole family of elephants, could have passed through camp last night without waking anyone. But I keep it to myself because I don’t want to seem like a killjoy. Besides, I’ve only been in Africa a week; what do I know about elephants? Based on what just happened, though, I do know that if I were running a camp like this it would be my policy to blame elephants for absolutely everything that ever went wrong. Who can be mad at elephants?
“Waiter, there’s a fly in my soup.”
“Elephants, madam.”
“Oh, really? How wonderful!”
“Yes, madam. Tell all your friends.”
Oh, if only there were an Olympic event in cynicism.
During dinner last night we convinced our drivers and hotel staff to split today’s safari into two excursions – one in the early morning and another in the late evening – in order to increase our chances of seeing active wildlife. Oddly, this isn’t Zara’s normal practice, which means that most of their clients go gadding about precisely when the savannah is most likely to be empty. Plains animals sensibly loll in the shade or hide themselves completely during the warmest, brightest hours of the day, which is why almost every lion we saw yesterday was asleep. The hotel staff agreed to our request and offered to serve today’s breakfast a little earlier and dinner a little later than normal.
The sun is just barely up when we start loading the Land Cruisers, one of which needs a push start. Each of our three vehicles has needed a push at least once in the past two days. While several of us gaze under the hood of today’s misbehaving truck, I ask George how long a Land Cruiser usually lasts under safari conditions. This sets off a lively debate among our drivers, who finally agree that the range is generally from 12 to 20 years. “Twenty years!” I exclaim, stifling a guffaw. “I can’t believe they even make ten.” The drivers assure me I’m wrong, but I’m unconvinced. Conditions here are brutal, what with the choking dust and the unpaved roads. All the push starts attest to that. In addition, the knobs and buttons have fallen off nearly every interface on the dashboards of all three of our vehicles, and the upholstery is worn and frayed from the relentless rising and genuflecting of the passengers. By the time one of these trucks is ten years old, enough of its parts have probably been replaced that philosophy students could hone their rhetorical skills arguing whether or not it’s the same vehicle.
Our plan to enter the park at daybreak pays off almost immediately. Lion cubs! Right by the side of the road. And with no adult supervision. They couldn’t cuter, and they seem harmless enough to be picked up and nuzzled. We’re not the only ones who aren’t afraid. Half a dozen antelope are grazing, unconcerned, not 15 yards away. We point them out helpfully to the cubs, who yawn and scratch and pounce playfully on one another. It’s like trying to get a toddler’s attention when other children are around. We enjoy their antics for a while and then, when it’s clear that there will be no chase, no kill, we depart in search of bigger game.
I step out my front door into the pre-dawn darkness and wave my flashlight around for a few minutes until a security dude shows up to escort me to breakfast. When one arrives, I don’t bother complaining about the water; we learned yesterday that these guys don’t speak English. Being escorted, therefore, is a pantomime. We point in the direction we want to go, and the guards nod obligingly and take the lead. They stop at every fork and intersection, turn around expectantly and wait for us to point again. It's like guiding a guide dog. And yet somehow we're the mzungus.
I encounter Deirdre at the foot of the long stone stairway leading to the elevated dining room. About halfway up the steps we look at each other and chuckle, each one knowing what the other is thinking. “We just climbed Mount Kilimanjaro,” she says, getting there first. “How embarrassing to be a little out of breath!” As it happens, Zara is preparing to build a new dining hall at ground level. Many of their guests are elderly and quite a few of them have been arriving for meals panting and clutching their chests. Not good.
As my fellow safari-goers greet each other and settle in at our table we discover that almost no one had water pressure this morning. Deirdre informs the manager, who comes to our table and apologizes to the whole group, explaining that a little family of elephants wandered through camp last night and stomped the supply lines flat. He assures us that we will all have water again by lunchtime.
This news changes the whole demeanor of the group. “Ooooo!” we coo with delight. “Elephants!” Less than a minute ago we were slightly disgruntled hotel patrons with a complaint worthy of a star-deduction on Yelp, and with a single sentence the manager transformed us into charmed, wide-eyed “Innocents Abroad.” What was once a First World annoyance has become, in just a few seconds, an enchanting adventure story to tell back in the States: “…and we didn’t have water one morning because a family of elephants walked right through camp!”
I hate to admit this, but I am skeptical about the elephant story. It seems impossible to me that a whole family of elephants, could have passed through camp last night without waking anyone. But I keep it to myself because I don’t want to seem like a killjoy. Besides, I’ve only been in Africa a week; what do I know about elephants? Based on what just happened, though, I do know that if I were running a camp like this it would be my policy to blame elephants for absolutely everything that ever went wrong. Who can be mad at elephants?
“Waiter, there’s a fly in my soup.”
“Elephants, madam.”
“Oh, really? How wonderful!”
“Yes, madam. Tell all your friends.”
Oh, if only there were an Olympic event in cynicism.
During dinner last night we convinced our drivers and hotel staff to split today’s safari into two excursions – one in the early morning and another in the late evening – in order to increase our chances of seeing active wildlife. Oddly, this isn’t Zara’s normal practice, which means that most of their clients go gadding about precisely when the savannah is most likely to be empty. Plains animals sensibly loll in the shade or hide themselves completely during the warmest, brightest hours of the day, which is why almost every lion we saw yesterday was asleep. The hotel staff agreed to our request and offered to serve today’s breakfast a little earlier and dinner a little later than normal.
The sun is just barely up when we start loading the Land Cruisers, one of which needs a push start. Each of our three vehicles has needed a push at least once in the past two days. While several of us gaze under the hood of today’s misbehaving truck, I ask George how long a Land Cruiser usually lasts under safari conditions. This sets off a lively debate among our drivers, who finally agree that the range is generally from 12 to 20 years. “Twenty years!” I exclaim, stifling a guffaw. “I can’t believe they even make ten.” The drivers assure me I’m wrong, but I’m unconvinced. Conditions here are brutal, what with the choking dust and the unpaved roads. All the push starts attest to that. In addition, the knobs and buttons have fallen off nearly every interface on the dashboards of all three of our vehicles, and the upholstery is worn and frayed from the relentless rising and genuflecting of the passengers. By the time one of these trucks is ten years old, enough of its parts have probably been replaced that philosophy students could hone their rhetorical skills arguing whether or not it’s the same vehicle.
Our plan to enter the park at daybreak pays off almost immediately. Lion cubs! Right by the side of the road. And with no adult supervision. They couldn’t cuter, and they seem harmless enough to be picked up and nuzzled. We’re not the only ones who aren’t afraid. Half a dozen antelope are grazing, unconcerned, not 15 yards away. We point them out helpfully to the cubs, who yawn and scratch and pounce playfully on one another. It’s like trying to get a toddler’s attention when other children are around. We enjoy their antics for a while and then, when it’s clear that there will be no chase, no kill, we depart in search of bigger game.
Hunters in Africa speak in rapturous tones of the Big Five, the five most coveted game animals on the continent: lion, elephant, Cape buffalo, leopard, and rhinoceros. These animals make the “big” list, not because of their size, but because of the danger and difficulty of hunting them, especially on foot. The list has also become very popular with safari guides, like George, who use it to excite their clients about the animals they’re so eager to bag on camera. And it works. If nothing else, the Big Five gives us something to discuss and anticipate between animal sightings. Here in the Serengeti it’s possible to see all five in a single day. Rhinos, however, are getting so rare that our chances of finding one in the park about as slim as the chances of me looking good in a pith helmet.
One member of the Big Five that’s plentiful here is the Cape buffalo, a herd of which soon appears on our left. Despite the fact that they’re bovine (cow-like) grazers, Cape buffalo are among the most recklessly aggressive animals in Africa. They’re easily annoyed and will attack almost anything, including lions, rhinos, and meddlesome safari vehicles. They’re responsible, in fact, for around 200 human goring deaths per year. Big males can weigh nearly 2,000 pounds and come armed with a set of horns that fuse, like a helmet, over the tops of their heads. The big bull beside us now – glaring at me like I just dissed his momma – looks like he’s wearing a giant handlebar mustache on his forehead instead of under his nose. And he’s daring me to say something about it. Ill-tempered and independent as they are, Cape buffaloes cooperate quite effectively against predators. In one of YouTube’s most famous nature clips, a herd of them successfully defends an injured calf from a pride of lions…and also a crocodile. If you’ve never seen The Battle at Kruger, it’s well worth watching. (Skip the first 2 minutes to get to the action.)
Though not among the Big Five, giraffes are a delight whenever we encounter them. With their long eyelashes and spindly legs, they look like what you'd get if Jim Henson designed a tower crane. According to George, giraffes here come in two flavors, Maasai and Rothschild’s. I’ve since come to learn, however, that Rothschild’s have become so rare that they are reliably found now only in isolated parts of Kenya and Uganda. The sole subspecies of giraffe in the Serengeti – or, for that matter, Tanzania – is the Maasai, which is not only the most common subspecies but also the tallest. In fact, since many males reach nearly 20 feet in height, Maasai giraffes are the tallest land mammals on earth. With their big brown irregular spots, they look like someone tried to replicate the Eiffel Tower in flagstone. Most of them could peer into a second-story window without difficulty, so don’t think your potted acacia is safe up there on the balcony.
One member of the Big Five that’s plentiful here is the Cape buffalo, a herd of which soon appears on our left. Despite the fact that they’re bovine (cow-like) grazers, Cape buffalo are among the most recklessly aggressive animals in Africa. They’re easily annoyed and will attack almost anything, including lions, rhinos, and meddlesome safari vehicles. They’re responsible, in fact, for around 200 human goring deaths per year. Big males can weigh nearly 2,000 pounds and come armed with a set of horns that fuse, like a helmet, over the tops of their heads. The big bull beside us now – glaring at me like I just dissed his momma – looks like he’s wearing a giant handlebar mustache on his forehead instead of under his nose. And he’s daring me to say something about it. Ill-tempered and independent as they are, Cape buffaloes cooperate quite effectively against predators. In one of YouTube’s most famous nature clips, a herd of them successfully defends an injured calf from a pride of lions…and also a crocodile. If you’ve never seen The Battle at Kruger, it’s well worth watching. (Skip the first 2 minutes to get to the action.)
Though not among the Big Five, giraffes are a delight whenever we encounter them. With their long eyelashes and spindly legs, they look like what you'd get if Jim Henson designed a tower crane. According to George, giraffes here come in two flavors, Maasai and Rothschild’s. I’ve since come to learn, however, that Rothschild’s have become so rare that they are reliably found now only in isolated parts of Kenya and Uganda. The sole subspecies of giraffe in the Serengeti – or, for that matter, Tanzania – is the Maasai, which is not only the most common subspecies but also the tallest. In fact, since many males reach nearly 20 feet in height, Maasai giraffes are the tallest land mammals on earth. With their big brown irregular spots, they look like someone tried to replicate the Eiffel Tower in flagstone. Most of them could peer into a second-story window without difficulty, so don’t think your potted acacia is safe up there on the balcony.
We return to Ikoma Wild Camp for lunch and a nap and to wait out the heat of the day. As promised, water pressure has been restored. Security escorts, however, are hard to find, no doubt since guests are not generally in camp at midday. I suspect, too, that elephants are somehow to blame.
I climb up to the dining hall to have a cold drink and chat with some of the other guests. There’s a discussion already in progress about the Serengeti Road project. For the past four years, Tanzania’s government has been hot to build a paved highway across the Serengeti, one that would link two of the nation’s great tourist hubs: Arusha, near Mount Kilimanjaro, and Musoma, on Lake Victoria. The proposed highway would cut through the northern neck of the park, creating a dangerous obstacle for the herds migrating between the Serengeti and the Maasai Mara Game Reserve. Yes, wildebeests and zebras are perfectly capable of crossing roads, but the Serengeti Road is not intended for a handful of safari vehicles; it’s intended to convey heavy traffic at highway speeds. One can easily imagine the carnage that would ensue when the Great Migration crosses paths with a convoy of 18-wheelers and/or tour buses. What’s more, such a road would encourage rapid development in the region, and, as we know all too well, human development displaces animal habitat. People will go wherever roads will take them. If you build it, they will come.
I didn’t know it at the time, but the day before Monica and I boarded our plane for Africa, the East African Court of Justice ruled against the road project, concluding that the Serengeti ecosystem is crucial to the region’s shared resources, represented by the migrating herds, the predators that rely on them, and the grassy corridor itself. The court recognized that a highway through the park might do irreparable harm to the main attraction of the region’s tourist economy, so it sagely decided not to kill the ostrich laying the golden eggs.
I climb up to the dining hall to have a cold drink and chat with some of the other guests. There’s a discussion already in progress about the Serengeti Road project. For the past four years, Tanzania’s government has been hot to build a paved highway across the Serengeti, one that would link two of the nation’s great tourist hubs: Arusha, near Mount Kilimanjaro, and Musoma, on Lake Victoria. The proposed highway would cut through the northern neck of the park, creating a dangerous obstacle for the herds migrating between the Serengeti and the Maasai Mara Game Reserve. Yes, wildebeests and zebras are perfectly capable of crossing roads, but the Serengeti Road is not intended for a handful of safari vehicles; it’s intended to convey heavy traffic at highway speeds. One can easily imagine the carnage that would ensue when the Great Migration crosses paths with a convoy of 18-wheelers and/or tour buses. What’s more, such a road would encourage rapid development in the region, and, as we know all too well, human development displaces animal habitat. People will go wherever roads will take them. If you build it, they will come.
I didn’t know it at the time, but the day before Monica and I boarded our plane for Africa, the East African Court of Justice ruled against the road project, concluding that the Serengeti ecosystem is crucial to the region’s shared resources, represented by the migrating herds, the predators that rely on them, and the grassy corridor itself. The court recognized that a highway through the park might do irreparable harm to the main attraction of the region’s tourist economy, so it sagely decided not to kill the ostrich laying the golden eggs.
By mid-afternoon we’re back in the park glassing the horizon from our Land Cruisers. How George decides which parts of the park to investigate for wildlife is a mystery, but he rarely takes us somewhere that doesn’t produce immediate results. His eyesight is astonishing, too. He picks out details at great distances that don’t even register with the rest of us. At one point, for instance, he stops the truck and stares, with the intensity of a hunting dog, at a stand of acacia trees at least a hundred yards away. The rest of us inspect the scene carefully with binoculars and zoom lenses. After a few seconds we shake our heads. Nothing there, we say. Let’s move on. But George cranks the steering wheel and takes us bouncing off-road, straight at the empty trees. “A leopard.” he insists, pointing at a tree in the middle. We stop just 50 feet from the tree and scrutinize it again. The sleeping leopard is so well hidden that it takes us half a minute to finally locate it. By then, three other drivers have spotted us and pulled up alongside. The leopard couldn’t care less. It slumbers on indifferently. We wait 15 minutes. Not so much as a twitch. Eventually, we take a few pictures – the best we’re apparently going to get of this cat-napper – and resume our search of something a bit more animated. (This is what we were hoping to see.)
Animals in the Serengeti aren’t always that difficult to find. Often they’re revealed by clusters of stopped safari vehicles. George spots just such a traffic snarl in the distance and reflexively makes a beeline for it. When we arrive, at least a dozen trucks are already on site. George slowly eases our Land Cruiser into the mix, leaning out the window to ask other drivers what everyone’s looking for. Most of them shrug, having just arrived themselves. Eventually, a little information trickles in, some in English, some in Swahili. A rumor quickly spreads that the first group to arrive saw two cheetahs, which immediately hunkered down in the tall grass just a few yards out from the jeep track, practically right at our feet. Everyone is looking down at the ground now, even those with binoculars.
There’s virtually no room to move, yet drivers keep maneuvering their vehicles in an attempt to get the best view possible for their clients without getting in the way of other vehicles. Tension builds as the shuffling continues and the cheetahs remain hidden. Drivers start barking at each other. Tourists get irritable. The cheetahs could sprint at any second and no one wants to miss that shot – certainly not because some inconsiderate lout got in the way.
Cheetahs are the fastest land animals in the world. They can hit 70 mph for short bursts, and their acceleration rate – zero to sixty in three seconds – could make a Ferrari engineer green with torque-envy. They’re also beautiful animals – lean and lithe and muscled for explosive power. Their spotted fur makes them look a lot like leopards, but cheetahs have shorter muzzles and unique eye markings. They look like they’re wearing Cleopatra’s eyeliner, or maybe like they’re crying tar.
George loses patience and cranks the wheel again – his signature move – lowering us slowly off the dirt road, down into the amber waves of grass. He steers purposefully into the area that everyone’s scanning, setting off a chorus of disapproval from the other drivers. I’m pretty sure this is illegal, and it’s certainly impolite, so I shrug sheepishly toward the other vehicles as if to say, “What can I do?”
Suddenly, a pair of fuzzy round heads pop up just 20 feet out from our grill. Two cheetahs lift themselves indignantly out of the grass, rising like a matching pair of suspension bridges, shoulders and haunches first, with heads, torsos, and tails hanging at lower elevations. The jeering stops immediately. Cameras start snapping like paparazzi at the Oscars. The cheetahs begin slinking away sideways, eying us over their shoulders like a couple of fugitives who aren’t quite sure they’ve been made. George pursues until they turn and break into a run. They’re gone in about three seconds, and I doubt they were going full speed. They were magnificent.
Animals in the Serengeti aren’t always that difficult to find. Often they’re revealed by clusters of stopped safari vehicles. George spots just such a traffic snarl in the distance and reflexively makes a beeline for it. When we arrive, at least a dozen trucks are already on site. George slowly eases our Land Cruiser into the mix, leaning out the window to ask other drivers what everyone’s looking for. Most of them shrug, having just arrived themselves. Eventually, a little information trickles in, some in English, some in Swahili. A rumor quickly spreads that the first group to arrive saw two cheetahs, which immediately hunkered down in the tall grass just a few yards out from the jeep track, practically right at our feet. Everyone is looking down at the ground now, even those with binoculars.
There’s virtually no room to move, yet drivers keep maneuvering their vehicles in an attempt to get the best view possible for their clients without getting in the way of other vehicles. Tension builds as the shuffling continues and the cheetahs remain hidden. Drivers start barking at each other. Tourists get irritable. The cheetahs could sprint at any second and no one wants to miss that shot – certainly not because some inconsiderate lout got in the way.
Cheetahs are the fastest land animals in the world. They can hit 70 mph for short bursts, and their acceleration rate – zero to sixty in three seconds – could make a Ferrari engineer green with torque-envy. They’re also beautiful animals – lean and lithe and muscled for explosive power. Their spotted fur makes them look a lot like leopards, but cheetahs have shorter muzzles and unique eye markings. They look like they’re wearing Cleopatra’s eyeliner, or maybe like they’re crying tar.
George loses patience and cranks the wheel again – his signature move – lowering us slowly off the dirt road, down into the amber waves of grass. He steers purposefully into the area that everyone’s scanning, setting off a chorus of disapproval from the other drivers. I’m pretty sure this is illegal, and it’s certainly impolite, so I shrug sheepishly toward the other vehicles as if to say, “What can I do?”
Suddenly, a pair of fuzzy round heads pop up just 20 feet out from our grill. Two cheetahs lift themselves indignantly out of the grass, rising like a matching pair of suspension bridges, shoulders and haunches first, with heads, torsos, and tails hanging at lower elevations. The jeering stops immediately. Cameras start snapping like paparazzi at the Oscars. The cheetahs begin slinking away sideways, eying us over their shoulders like a couple of fugitives who aren’t quite sure they’ve been made. George pursues until they turn and break into a run. They’re gone in about three seconds, and I doubt they were going full speed. They were magnificent.
The jeering morphs into cheering, and George is now a hero. He flashes a big smile and waves to the crowd with one hand while steering us back onto the road with the other. But fame is fleeting. Within minutes the cheetah jam has cleared and every vehicle has flown off in a different direction.
Exultant, George announces that he’s going to take us to a hippo pool. We’ve already seen a few hippos on this trip, but he seems to think that this spot is something special. And oh, is it special! We smell it long before we arrive and immediately start discussing the potential merits of turning back. Words cannot capture the foul stench of a hippo pool. And if they could, those words would be banned.
Until today I had assumed hippos were cute, docile, and friendly. You know, like manatees with feet. Now I know better. Hippos are disgusting, aggressive, and disgusting. They’re also disgusting. Here’s how to make your own hippopotamus. First, stuff 2 tons of poop and organ meat into a 1-ton capacity sausage casing. At one end screw on a head shaped like the business end of an upright vacuum cleaner; at the other end attach a tail that looks like a miniature whale fluke. Then, just to be mean, give it legs instead of fins. Think I'm being unfair? Read on.
This particular hippo pool is such a permanent installation that it has a parking area, a set of restrooms, and some roughhewn wooden rails to discourage people from getting too close to the water. We park a dozen or so yards from the riverbank and take a few moments to steel ourselves against the fetid odor. Finally, in the name of getting some good photos, I slide out of the vehicle and force myself through curtains of nearly-visible effluvium. I find the hippos wallowing, eyeballs deep, in a foaming cesspool of their own urine and feces. They might as well be steeping in a backed-up toilet. The air is filled, not only with the aroma, but also with the sound of flatulence. Groans and bellows occasionally interrupt what would otherwise be a ceaseless drone of belching and farting. The atmosphere at the riverbank is so noxious, the fumes so thick, that I’d be terrified to light a match here.
Just when I think it can't get any worse, something astonishing happens. One of the hippos raises himself out of the water and starts whipping his stumpy little tail back and forth like an upside-down windshield wiper. At first it’s funny, but then he starts pooping right into his own fanning tail. The crowd recoils with a mighty “Ewwwww!” as feces sprays in all directions. Nearby hippos are unconcerned. They neither move away in revulsion nor even turn their faces from the sh#%tstorm. The defecation has truly hit the oscillation, and it ain’t over yet. It turns out that this isn’t an anomaly. This is how hippos empty their bowels. And it is appalling.
As if that’s not revolting enough, hippos often appear to be sweating blood. They secrete reddish-orange acids through their pores, one of which is a sunscreen and one an antibacterial – which makes sense, I suppose, for animals that bathe in each other’s excrement.
Now I'd like you to guess which African mammal accounts for almost as many human deaths per year as the Cape buffalo. That’s right, the hippo. Incredibly, some of these bloated, purple-gray submarines can run nearly 20 miles per hour for (very) short distances. And while Usain Bolt can sprint at almost 28 mph (also for very short distances), the average human tops out at about 16 mph. Good god! How humiliating would it be to have “Caught by hippopotamus” on your death certificate?
Exultant, George announces that he’s going to take us to a hippo pool. We’ve already seen a few hippos on this trip, but he seems to think that this spot is something special. And oh, is it special! We smell it long before we arrive and immediately start discussing the potential merits of turning back. Words cannot capture the foul stench of a hippo pool. And if they could, those words would be banned.
Until today I had assumed hippos were cute, docile, and friendly. You know, like manatees with feet. Now I know better. Hippos are disgusting, aggressive, and disgusting. They’re also disgusting. Here’s how to make your own hippopotamus. First, stuff 2 tons of poop and organ meat into a 1-ton capacity sausage casing. At one end screw on a head shaped like the business end of an upright vacuum cleaner; at the other end attach a tail that looks like a miniature whale fluke. Then, just to be mean, give it legs instead of fins. Think I'm being unfair? Read on.
This particular hippo pool is such a permanent installation that it has a parking area, a set of restrooms, and some roughhewn wooden rails to discourage people from getting too close to the water. We park a dozen or so yards from the riverbank and take a few moments to steel ourselves against the fetid odor. Finally, in the name of getting some good photos, I slide out of the vehicle and force myself through curtains of nearly-visible effluvium. I find the hippos wallowing, eyeballs deep, in a foaming cesspool of their own urine and feces. They might as well be steeping in a backed-up toilet. The air is filled, not only with the aroma, but also with the sound of flatulence. Groans and bellows occasionally interrupt what would otherwise be a ceaseless drone of belching and farting. The atmosphere at the riverbank is so noxious, the fumes so thick, that I’d be terrified to light a match here.
Just when I think it can't get any worse, something astonishing happens. One of the hippos raises himself out of the water and starts whipping his stumpy little tail back and forth like an upside-down windshield wiper. At first it’s funny, but then he starts pooping right into his own fanning tail. The crowd recoils with a mighty “Ewwwww!” as feces sprays in all directions. Nearby hippos are unconcerned. They neither move away in revulsion nor even turn their faces from the sh#%tstorm. The defecation has truly hit the oscillation, and it ain’t over yet. It turns out that this isn’t an anomaly. This is how hippos empty their bowels. And it is appalling.
As if that’s not revolting enough, hippos often appear to be sweating blood. They secrete reddish-orange acids through their pores, one of which is a sunscreen and one an antibacterial – which makes sense, I suppose, for animals that bathe in each other’s excrement.
Now I'd like you to guess which African mammal accounts for almost as many human deaths per year as the Cape buffalo. That’s right, the hippo. Incredibly, some of these bloated, purple-gray submarines can run nearly 20 miles per hour for (very) short distances. And while Usain Bolt can sprint at almost 28 mph (also for very short distances), the average human tops out at about 16 mph. Good god! How humiliating would it be to have “Caught by hippopotamus” on your death certificate?
So disgusted am I by the hippos that I don’t even take note of the fact that this is only time any of us has been allowed to leave the Land Cruisers while inside park boundaries. I am totally oblivious to the fact that I’m lion bait out here. On the other hand, I'm keenly aware of the presence of crocodiles, but that’s only because I see some on the riverbank. Once it sinks in that I’m on foot in the Serengeti – that I am now on the same menu as the zebras and the wildebeests – I start making my way back to the vehicles, carefully examining every clump of grass as I go.
Safely back in the Land Cruisers, we discover that it’s time to head back to camp. A family of giraffes graciously escorts us part way out of the park, and the sunset leads us home.
Over a late dinner my fellow Great White Hunters and I chat about the day’s adventures. We share stories and admire the images on each other’s cameras. Our conversation, I notice, never strays too far from the Big Five.
Elephant? Check.
Lion? Check.
Cape buffalo? Check.
Leopard? Check.
Rhino? Uh… Rhino?
It just so happens that tomorrow we will be visiting Ngorongoro Crater. If there’s a rhino to be found anywhere in Tanzania, it’s there. Now if only I had a pith helmet.
Safely back in the Land Cruisers, we discover that it’s time to head back to camp. A family of giraffes graciously escorts us part way out of the park, and the sunset leads us home.
Over a late dinner my fellow Great White Hunters and I chat about the day’s adventures. We share stories and admire the images on each other’s cameras. Our conversation, I notice, never strays too far from the Big Five.
Elephant? Check.
Lion? Check.
Cape buffalo? Check.
Leopard? Check.
Rhino? Uh… Rhino?
It just so happens that tomorrow we will be visiting Ngorongoro Crater. If there’s a rhino to be found anywhere in Tanzania, it’s there. Now if only I had a pith helmet.
All my photos from July 9, 2014 are available online.