Life is bitter and sweet; safari tips the balance in my favor. It’s the last day of our canoe safari on the Zambezi River, the north-south boundary between Zambia and Zimbabwe. We paddle through miles of wild purple hyacinth dotting the river’s edge, leaving behind tiny green bee-eaters darting in and out of holes on the mud banks. Laura and I push towards the shore, then wedge our canoe into tall slender reeds, while a gentle breeze sends the sweet grasses’ scent downstream.
      Like an old nickelodeon flipping pictures rapidly I watch my traveling companions, Laura and our husbands, follow Alan, our African canoe guide. They walk single file and approach the “elly.” When they reach the boundary of the elephant’s flight-fright-fight range, she raises her trunk and waves huge ears, sending white egrets towards heaven. Alan heeds elly’s warning; he raises his hand, signaling the group to quietly step backward towards the canoes.
     As the river narrows, we are a stone’s throw from two male elephants. After bathing, the bulls feed on acacia by the river’s edge. Cattle egrets trail to snatch grasshoppers disturbed by the pachyderms’ huge padded feet. We encounter herds of impala, waterbuck with round-ringed rumps, and more egrets pinned to the backs of buffalo. By the shore, we scout around pods of hippo, ears spinning and snorting on the Zambezi River. I snap a picture of the roan grazing in the waving grasses. While paddling I notice dried blood, marking where the slender razor-like reeds sliced through my skin.
     Our pilot and romantic safari guide Kyle Holden fills my eyes and ears with spectacular sightings of birds common to the area. I love the sounds of their names rolling off my tongue: brown snake eagle, red-billed oxpecker, blacksmith and white-crowned plovers, sacred ibis, black crake, lilac-breasted roller, goliath heron, young African jacana, reed cormorant, malachite and pied kingfishers, green-back heron, and white-winged terns. Kyle schools, “The acacia groves are the tallest in Africa. Monkeys and baboons travel in family packs. Mammas carry their babies. Baboons run down the trees when frightened; monkeys run up.”
     At the campsite my muscles ache after a long day of paddling; my legs sting from the reeds, and yet I’m filled with wonder. After dinner I hear screeching cries in the dark. Alan turns to me and asks, “Sara, you up to search for hyena tonight?” With tired head in hand, I laugh, and turn him down. Alan and the other men leave the dinner table. The night is quiet, except for the hyena rasps.
      I hear soft murmurs of the men; I join them at the edge of our camp near the river’s bank. Alan hands me the night stalker and asks, “Can you smell them, Sara?” I place the infrared night scope to my eye. There, in the green distance, is a herd of wild female elephants and their babes. I count thirty-six in all. I cannot hear their padding through the packed grasses and dried mud. I stand transfixed before the march of elly. The silence of the great western machines allows a return to nature’s heartbeat. I hear her beating now, regular and secure. My heartbeat adjusts to a pressing need to beat in tandem, as I ease into the African pace.
     Taking a shower on this cloudless night, I gaze at the canopy of stars. Hello moon, can you see me? Good-bye sun, you were a good friend. Good night to all the day’s wonder: elly flapping great ears, cavorting hippo snorts, memories of green bee eaters serenading our last strong strokes towards the shore, and bush skies filled with saddle-billed stork. How could these orange, black, and white birds lift their girth? I giggle at yellow-eyed canaries, long-tailed starlings, parrots and hoopoe, while Venus winks.
     During my shower on the shore of the Zambezi River, an old picture snaps. No. I push away the image in my mind. I want the water to wash away its ache. Another old picture snaps. I'm able to shove the pictures away as I scrub my body raw, keeping a secret from myself.
     In the morning I awake to the hum of giant army ants and laughing hippo in the distance. As the crew breaks down camp, I write by candlelight. The sun rises in ribbons of dark pink and purple clouds. By the time I can see the morning sun, it slowly warms the day. The warmth of the giant ball pushes the air northerly. We bid our canoe guide Alan good-bye. This is the picture I want to remember.

     The flight to Chizarira is much better with a quarter grain of Bonine to ease my nausea. The airstrip for landing our six-seater Cessna is nothing more than a treeless field, an extended patch of grass peppered with elephant dung. While landing, marabou and monkeys cross the plane’s path. We transfer our gear from the plane to an old rusted Land Rover.
     Kyle introduces us to a new guide, an ornithologist, Ron Huddles. Kyle says, “Ron is responsible for bringing back the peregrine falcon to the United States. We visit Chizarira to view falcons, which nest high on the gorges’ edges, and to find the ancient trails of elephant.” With Ron is Billiard, Kyle’s best tracker. Riding in the back of the Landrover, Billiard sits across from me. We observe each other obliquely. I’m not his caste; his silence creates a boundary.
     The Land Rover pushes through the bush, rustling through the tall grasses, splashing through shallow streams, and crunching over dried riverbeds. The charred fields, the heat of the sun, and the difficult ride to camp intensifies being in the wilderness. Kyle explains, “The burned-out bush is a result of conservation efforts, to make room for larger trees which are being choked out by the thick underbrush.” The ride to our new campsite frightens my three comrades. The canoe trip pales in comparison to this arid wilderness. It’s the end of May, with no rain since January; the ground is parched.
     We look out across the shallow water to a wall of cliffs. After a short rest, we ready ourselves to view the gorges of Chizarira. Billiard, the tracker, leads our safari party. As I hike through the bush, I suffer from the itching of reed scratches and sun poisoning. We trek for three hours through narrow rocky trails and burnt fields. We rest atop an escarpment overlooking a wide gorge. Ron turns to Billiard, and instructs, “Sit here and find elly.” Billiard responds, wordlessly.
     Kyle sets out meat pies and quiche, and prepares tea. Ron speaks to Billiard. Billiard points across the gorge. I see nothing in the distance but a barren canyon. Ron sets up his telescope; I look through my binoculars and see nothing. Billiard sights the elephants with his naked eye. I look for dust kicked up, signaling their trail; there is none. This dark-skinned native has a vision I do not share.
     “There they are. I found this place many years ago. It never fails to lead to elephant. Give a look, Sara. Elephant carve the easiest route into the gorge, leading to the loveliest glen of river rapids. This is the Holy Grail of Chizarira, the ancient elephant trails,” says Ron.
     We break from lunch to follow the trail to the river’s edge. Along the way Ron sights a family of klipspringer, a species of small antelope. Through evolution, their hooves developed a unique shape to trot through the rocky hills. In the water’s reflection, we view a perfect mirror image of the gorge, the cliffs and the scourged foliage. We stop to drink the sand-filtered water, watching minnows swim. Kyle says, “Elephant dung contains a high percentage of water because they drink large amounts daily. Other grazers can go four or five days without drinking,” Kyle continues to educate us. While hiking for a closer view of the herd, he explains, “If the elephant charge, run down the hill, because elly hate running downhill.”
     A bit later, I moisten my mouth with a “Tootsie” pop. I toss a pop and say, “Billiard, catch.”  He turns and makes a good catch. I hear no thanks, just a double clap sound.
     “The double clap is his thank-you. He likes it very much. He won’t speak,” says Kyle.
     “Why?” I ask.
     “He has learned not to speak to his masters.” Kyle is no longer my image of the romantic safari guide.
     We continue our long trek after the elephants. Billiard leads our group. I decide to follow his path, recalling an old cliché, “following another man’s footsteps.” Perhaps I can understand his vision. I quicken my step to slip into his pace. I realize Billiard responds to command; he has no choices. His silence is like a veil of blue dignity.
     Tears come quickly; I stamp through Billiard’s footsteps. The heat of the day mingles with the heat of my anger. When not commanded, Billiard slides into his private world with sky eyes. He recoils into an untouched, private and sacred place, retreating to survive indignation. Suddenly, I feel a connection to the tracker. I jump out of his rhythm and move back with my traveling companions.
     After dinner, I cry while I shower. I let the picture come; I do not push my secret away. I am five years old, playing in my parents’ shower. I dance with glee as the water tickles my body. I smack my feet on the shower floor, splashing droplets on the blue-tiled walls. Daddy comes in and plays with me. He soaps his large, hairy body. Then a hand clasps behind my neck. I’m pushed into his wet hairiness. My feet leave the ground and I begin to choke; I can't see. I struggle, suspended in air. I hear my mother jiggle the bathroom lock. She asks, “What’s going on in there?”
     “Get lost, we’re just having some fun,” a voice replies. Locked in silence, a hand cups my mouth.
     Anger rises from my childhood. I responded on command; I had no choice. What he did was ugly, dirty, and bad. I pushed the pictures away; I didn’t want to believe they were true. Now, pasting the pictures together, I understand Billiard’s lesson: trapped in silence he had no choice.
     I stop scrubbing.

     Walk softly, speak softly, and respect the lessons of safari. The elephant reign king, the lion run the bush and the hippo the river. Safari quickens my heart and stills my soul. The stars, moon, and sun witness this intrepid creature. All of nature witnesses what I do, what I am, and what I have. All has come true of what can be; I am full. Full of what I’ve dreamed to be. Tucked in bed the words tumble and my dreams twist over rainbows. As I drift into sleep I’m alert for the hungry belly rumblings of elephant. Birds, insects, and mammal calls replace the sounds of air conditioners, automobiles, telephones, and televisions. The music of the wilderness is my lullaby tonight. I dream of seesawing canters of high-necked, spotted, golden giraffe and thick-footed pachyderms. It is the child within us who continues to wonder. Boundaries crossed, wonder was stolen: Africa gives it back.