Swish Swish
Charleine Sell
©
Copyright 2020 by Charleine Sell
|
 |
My
husband slept with elephants. I didn’t.
I
am not a great lover of camping, but of all the camping adventures I
have experienced (from a family vacation at Hammonasset State Park in
Connecticut in the 1960s, the Everglades in 1973, to trout fishing on
Lake Hihium in British Columbia in 1977), the most challenging one
was with Jack, in 1972 at Lake Manyara National Park in Tanzania.
From
Dar es Salaam, we flew on a small plane to Kilimanjaro International
Airport in northern Tanzania. We were pleasantly surprised to find a
small modern airport, less than a year old, built in the middle of
nowhere between the small town of Arusha and Mount Kilimanjaro. It
was an airport for tourists who wanted to visit destinations such as
Ngorongoro Crater, Serengeti, Lake Manyara and Mount Kilimanjaro by
providing direct flights from Europe. It offered a closer alternative
to these sites than flying into Dar es Salaam or Nairobi. The
air-conditioned bus to Arusha was shiny and new, and we sat among
tourists from Europe and Tanzanians in local dress. Grabbing our
gear, we stepped off the cool bus into hot sunshine and, after asking
around, were directed to a campsite located on grass next to the
local city hall. A few campers had already pitched their tents near a
stream at the bottom of the hill below city hall, mostly young people
like us. We had a small pup tent and started putting it up near the
group.
Before
we finished, a security guard scrambled down the grassy bank toward
all of us, waving his arms and pointing at us and then to the top of
the hill near the building. He was speaking Swahili, but Jack was
able to figure out that he wanted everyone to move back up the hill
where a bright light illuminated the building and its surroundings.
Because the watchman was hired to guard city hall, he said he could
not protect us if we camped down at the bottom of the hill where it
was dark. Thieves would come during the night, he warned, slit our
tents and steal our belongings.
Everyone
packed up and moved to the top of the hill under the floodlight. We
were now back in the good graces of the night watchman.
We
spent one uneventful night at the Arusha campsite, and the next
morning, hoping to hitch a ride, we set out walking the road that led
to Ngorongoro Crater Game Park. The distance was about 96 miles, but
we were undeterred. Peace Corps volunteers on vacation from jobs in
Swaziland at the time (1970 to 1973) didn’t have much money, of
course.
It
wasn’t long before I started to get annoyed with Jack. He
insisted on walking fast with long strides, and I couldn’t keep
up with him. As usual, he was soon down the road and way out in front
of me. After a while, he finally stopped, came back to me and took my
backpack. Keeping his brown canvas rucksack on his back with our
orange pup tent fastened across the top, he hoisted my red,
aluminum-framed backpack across his chest and started off again! The
morning sun beat down on me, and even without my heavy backpack, the
distance between us once again began to stretch until two Brits in an
old beater Volvo took pity on us, stopped and asked where we were
headed.
After
telling them Ngorongoro Crater, probably the most famous game park in
east Africa, they asked if we would rather go with them to Lake
Manyara Game Park. I guess we didn’t really care where we went,
we just wanted to see some African game. We knew Ngorongoro Park,
which followed the Rift Valley escarpment, was the most popular game
park and attracted large numbers of tourists. Always preferring to
get off the beaten path, we hopped in their car and off we went. Both
guys in the car started up a friendly chat. They quickly let us know
they had decided on a whim earlier that morning to drive to a game
park and camp for a couple of nights. They were brothers, and Roger,
the older one, lived and worked in Nairobi, while Andrew had come to
visit him from England.
The
park, famous for its lions in trees, seemed empty of people. We never
saw another soul the two days we were there. Certainly, we were the
only ones dumb enough to camp. There was no entrance gate, just a
dusty road, so for company and safety, we decided to tent together in
a small clearing around a campfire. Late in the afternoon, while Jack
pitched our tent, I wandered off looking for extra wood for our
campfire. I didn’t go far, because the park was known not only
for lions, but also for herds of elephants. Although there were
official boundaries of this park noted on maps, no visible boundaries
existed. The animals roamed back and forth out of the park, into
nearby fields to eat maize and back into the park.
I
hadn’t gotten very far before I stopped dead in my tracks. Not
more than 50 yards away was a group of elephants, about 15; huge ones
and little 200 lb ‘baby’ ones, busy feeding among the
scrub trees and bushes. On hearing my approach, the larger ones swung
their vast heads around, like large Sherman tanks, and stared
ominously. I didn’t move a muscle or blink an eye; afraid they
would decide I should not be there. After a few tense moments and
hoping they would not charge, I turned and ran back to tell the guys
how close to us the elephants were. Even though they listened to my
details, they pooh-poohed my concern.
That
night, as Jack was snoring away in our miniscule tent, I was startled
awake by odd swishing sounds. I thought immediately it might be those
elephants I had seen earlier. I woke up Jack, but all we heard were
the night sounds of chatter, whistles, and whoops plus the roar of a
lion in the distance. He dismissed me as being a bit overly excited
about nothing and fell back asleep.
Swish,
swish. There it was again. I was sure I could hear the movement of
elephant ears creating a soft swishing sound like mainsails in the
breeze! Swish, swish. I lay there and thought, we are two
people
lying in a tent that is no more than 3 feet high, and even though it
is a bright orange tent, I have no idea if they can see us! I
wondered if elephants were color-blind. Would they even notice the
tent? I lay there not moving a muscle, barely breathing, my body
tense. I wondered how many there were. Their trunks made soft
snuffling sounds as they searched the ground around them. I could
hear their tree-trunk size legs dragging through the brush making
crackling sounds as they destroyed whatever was beneath them. I knew
those huge elephants could step right on us and crush us – even
by accident! Needless to say, I did not sleep that night.
The next morning,
Jack got up first and crawled out of our tent. Oh my, did he ever
yell when he almost stepped in a giant pile of fresh, steaming
elephant poop right next to our tent! I was not only vindicated, but
that evening all three guys built a giant campfire and took turns
keeping it going all night long.
I
slept like a baby.
(Unless
you
type
the
author's name
in
the subject
line
of the message
we
won't know where to send it.)
Charleine's
story list and biography
Book
Case
Home
Page
The
Preservation Foundation, Inc., A Nonprofit Book Publisher