By Jeff Warren


It’s hard NOT to be humble once you’ve been to Africa. It’s hard to be humble once you’ve been to Africa.The unexpected becomes expected. Nothing is, but what is not.

Plants turn into animals. Animals become plants (especially birds, luring unsuspecting insects with their brilliant flower-reds, blues and yellows).

All the clichés are true. Survival of the fittest gets played out second by second.

The lioness who nuzzles and licks her rolly polly cub will hours later rip the skin off and eat alive a crippled water buffalo.

There is no room for sentimentality.

We’ve been tossed into an atavistic world that precedes thought. Everything is in the moment — instinctual — impulsive — violent — brutal — and beautiful all at the same time.

It seems so reflexive. Yet, clearly these are brilliantly intelligent animals.

It is perfect. Everything works. Of course, one’s perspective changes slightly when the first “track” he sees is that of a snake crossing a newly raked path.

And yes, when one shakes out his boots before lacing them up or checks the pipes in the outdoor shower just to make sure those long slender shapes are just pipes and not roosts — Toto or no, one knows he’s not in Kansas anymore. Going to the “loo” in the dark is not an option.

Swetsana, the language is as beautiful as the sunsets. We are destined to see dazzles of zebras, sounders of wart hogs, and journeys of giraffes.

Africa is nothing if not pure poetry in perpetual motion.

The first thing that smacks one right between the eyes is how little he knows about anything. The second is how poor his eyesight really is. The third is how puny his existence is in a world which doesn’t give a damn about him, and would destroy him for “sport,” though he’d always thought it was vice versa.

Despite the luxurious comfort of the camps, the fear is palpable and never leaves you. The heart beats faster. The senses are sharper. The eyes forever darting, and ears are pricked up to distinguish the hundreds of sounds which play a continual symphony.

We are in the Okavanga Delta on the Dubba Plains. I didn’t know where that was either until the “Caravan” 11-seater set down on the sandy runway in a swampy delta in Northern Botswana.

Our first stop was Dubba Plains Camp. There are a series of them out here on the world’s largest island delta.

Everyone and everything is conservation-oriented. Respect for the treasures of the bush is de rigueur.

We are a comical lot, having bought out R.E.I. Like city slickers at a dude ranch, we’ve got all the latest get-up in khaki, browns, and greens (no camo allowed). It’s freshly washed and crisply ironed. No doubt the hippos are impressed.

Of course bunking at Dubba Plains and Mombo Camp is like staying at Auberge and Meadowood, and saying suddenly one knows what it is like to disc a vineyard or pick grapes in the September heat during the harvest.

Despite the luxury of these camps, there is no walking to one’s room after dark, unescorted. In fact, there’s no walking anywhere in the bush.

Being awakened by an elephant pulling tree branches down outside the tent cabin at 4 a.m. on the first morning was an interesting introduction. I realized why brown was such an important color in the bush.

(Two nights later elephants, attempting to get to the outside shower, were pulling the railings off my friend’s tent. He finally had to sound the “air horn” alarm, bringing in the pros with gun and medical kit).

We have read Stanley’s account of his search for Livingston and are reading Speke’s diaries (of his search for the Nile) along with many accounts of Roosevelt, Hemingway and the legendary hunter and thrill-seeker Richard Sperlous, but nothing has prepared us for what we see and breathe every day.

The Dubba rock stars aren’t elephants. They are the “Dubba Boys,” two aged alpha males who are in charge of a pride of 13 lions which through some quirk in nature may be exterminating itself.

It’s a strange tale which begins with “Silver Eye,” the one-eyed lioness who recently gave birth to a new cub. “Silver Eye” has a bad habit of eating the cubs of other lionesses. Mimicking her behavior, other mothers have picked up her habit. Keeping cubs alive in this pride is no mean feat — and will almost certainly lead to its demise.

Interestingly, the females (which now eat each others’) will join together for a “kill.” Expediency is “all” in their world.

The males, after the age of about eight, let the gals do the hunting, killing and child-raising, setting a standard of familial interaction which is the envy of male populations worldwide. Besides sleeping, there is only one thing these males do and they do it a lot — once again, making males everywhere else on the planet green with envy.

The two old Dubba Guys, well past their prime, still won’t turn the pride over to Junior (the long two-year-old male cub). Their lust and love triangles with Junior’s sisters, mother and her sisters could have been scripted by Caligula.

We go on “safari” in a large Land Rover. Our guides are skilled trackers who know game (large and small) like we know sports heroes. They see what we can’t.

Like children we compete for their approval and crave the phrase “Good Spot!” when we call out a Red Lechwe before they do.

The amateur who spots a lion first is King for a Day. (To be continued, with luck.)