stuck, or a brush with death

On safari you experience a near constant reminder of just how small your place in the biosphere really is. That’s part of the bargain, part of the rush. Mostly it comes in gasps of wonder and awe. Yet today’s run in with an unhappy elephant was a heart-pounding example that sometimes the reminder comes hand in hand with a dizzying fear. Watching this beautiful creature devour a thorny Acacia was mesmerizing until we were distracted by the howls of a jackal, whose cries signaled a lurking danger. It turned out to be a pair of male lions on the hunt, and seeing them cross our line of sight we decided to make pursuit.  What the driver failed to notice, however, was the big ditch separating us from them – until we went kerplunk. Thoroughly stuck, we sat there immobile, our rear wheel unable to gain any traction whatsoever.  As the driver gunned the engine, the axle emitted a high-pitched squeal which not only set my teeth on edge but also seemed to rattle the brain of an animal in mid-meal.  Add the howl of the jackal and the smell of the lions and we suddenly had a skittish and visibly unhappy pachyderm not twenty feet away.  With perfect timing a branch feel from the tree, thwacking it on the back. As if we were to blame it reeled on us like a bull, using its muscular trunk to toss branches left and right in a display of displeasure, if not downright aggression. It’s at this point that I became almost hyper-conscious of the animal’s large tusks – and my unfortunate positioning in the car, which puts me at the direct point of impact should we be charged. I flash back to the terrifying drive back from the condor nests in Patagonia last winter: a white-knuckle journey in which we narrowly escaped skidding into a ravine multiple times. My friend told me afterward that from the back seat she was wishing for death because she knew if we went over the edge she would never survive getting out of the gorge on her own. I’m wondering what we would do if this elephant charged the car? Where would we run? Outside are a pair of lions which would quickly pick up our scent. Plus, there’s not a  substantial tree in sight – and even if there were it’d be no match for a rampaging elephant.  It is so silent I can’t hear anything: I feel my heartbeat, however, and what I think is a low guttural rumbling coming from the elephant. If the driver fruitlessly guns the engine one more time, I think I might get hysterical, but he’s reaching for his walkie-talkie and radioing back to camp for reinforcements.  How anyone will find us is beyond me but at this point all we can do is wait – and watch. Time bends. The anticipation is agony. We are rescued, of course, by a pair of laughing Masai who, no doubt, will mercilessly rib and cajole our driver for weeks, if not years, to come. Almost incidentally they scare the elephant off with a machete. Trying to get some traction to the back wheels they attack a fallen log. The metallic ping as the machete hits the wood is enough to freak the elephant out: it whinnies and runs away as expeditiously as if we had pointed a shotgun at its head. I am pretty sure I exhale audibly, while simultaneously realizing that I am ravenous. We’ve spent all this time staring down death and managed to miss breakfast.


still life: bird alighting on a corpse


video: an ordinary death

I’ve seen more than my fair share of cringe-inducing blood and guts and gore so far. Death is everywhere. (So, too, are leftovers.) All of which made the sight of a wildebeest dying a peaceable death that much more touching and extraordinary. Clearly he’s not injured, yet the shallow pants of breath signal an animal not long for this world. Thankfully the scent of the beast had yet to be picked up by scavengers. Driving off I couldn’t help but hope the scene would stay that way until the wildebeest drew its final quiet breath.



the lord of la mancha

It was only a few years ago that I randomly picked up a copy of Miguel de Cervantes’ Don Quixote.  In Edith Grossman’s stunning translation, which was new at the time, the four hundred year old novel was brought to life in a way I couldn’t have imagined possible.  A weighty tome in both size and scope it held me enrapt for weeks. (Pick up any piece of fiction written in the last two hundred years and you’ll see the debt to Cervantes on every page) I knew the author spent a significant period of his life abroad, but didn’t realize his ties to the capital until now. Cervantes died in Madrid, coincidentally on the same day as William Shakespeare: April 23, 1616.


bored to death

To all those people who wonder why I love traveling so much – and why I am out and about most nights of the week and why I’ve taken up drumming and why I can read about almost anything and everything – I ask you to take a look at this story in yesterday’s Irish Independent.

Apparently you really can be bored to death, a study shows:  “People who complain of “high levels” of boredom in their lives are at double the risk of dying from from heart disease or a stroke than those who find life entertaining, researchers at University College London found.  Of more than 7,000 civil servants who were monitored over 25 years, those who said they were bored were nearly 40% more likely to have died by the end of the study than those who did not.”

I can’t remember the last time I was bored; there just aren’t enough hours in the day.  So, apologies to my cable network day job, but turn off the television for a start, people.  Life is for the alive (and youth is wasted on the young, too, since we’re tossing aphorisms about here)  But one thing’s for certain: time is running out.


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