Home » Botswana » Jul 24, 2004 Khwai River - Moremi Game Reserve, Botswana

“The Night of the Quelea...” Has kind of a ring to it, don’t you think? Like some bad B movie I saw as a kid in the late sixties. (Why do the late sixties seem like another epoch?) Well if this evening’s game drive were to be given any sort of moniker, “Night of the Quelea” would be it; and it’s a far, far cry from any second-rate film seen at some matinee on a summer afternoon when I was ten. Sometimes nature just opens up her arms and reveals something that is beyond imagining, letting you know that all your petty ambitions are of little consequence and most times just silly. Hey, don’t just take it from me, the Africa newbie; both Alwyn and Stanley said they’ve never seen anything like it either, and they do this for a living. Upon returning to camp this evening I made the comment to Nicky what a great writing exercise it would be to describe what we had just seen. Well, I’ve now set the stage and have no choice but to follow through with those words and embark on an exercise that will only prove my inadequacy in such regard. I persevere nonetheless (dragging you all along with me); but not before bringing us up to date on the last two days – a slight reprieve. The reward will be the Night of the Quelea. <br />

Jul 24, 2004 Khwai River - Moremi Game Reserve, Botswana

Tom Schueneman
2006-03-27 15:39:27

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an airplane. Even then, landings were still the most challenging skill in my “flight skill set”. My most accomplished flight skill you may ask? My radio chatter; I had that down. So much so, in fact, that my instructor once as much as told me after I reported into the San Carlos tower one day that “he’s going to think you’re a better pilot than you are”. It made me feel as if I should “dumb down” my radio persona so the controller would realize what an idiot I actually was. The radio chatter is cool. Maybe I could get a gig with an airline doing the cockpit radio. “NorCal approach, this is United 909 at flight level two-one-zero for 11,000 with Tango...” Oh, did you want me to actually land the plane as well?

Given the discussion thus far, you can well imagine the childlike excitement I felt sitting in the copilot seat with my hands on my lap and my feet well away from the rudder peddles. But it was soon over and I realized that I actually preferred the delta while sitting precariously in a mokoro than I did from 4,500 feet. (Do I hear a “well, Duh!” out there?) Nonetheless, our pilot brought us in for an acceptable landing; I didn’t have to intervene. As we taxied to a stop at the end of the runway, we could see Stanley and the two Land Cruisers waiting for us, now almost seeming like the center of the earth – home. We were back in the bush.

After disembarking and packing back into the Land Cruisers, a sudden decision was made to separate by gender. Us guys (two middle-aged men – one of them just barely middle-aged - and two teenagers) with Stanley, and the girls (four females talking about God-knows-what) with Alwyn. I bid Jayne farewell as Bill, Dan, Scott, and I loaded in with Stanley for the game drive into camp – just us men out on safari. A half mile or so past the airstrip we came across a troop of baboon intersecting our path across the road. A baboon couple offered the fourteen-year-old boys a certain ...