You spend years waiting to get somewhere and, when you finally get it, and starts to hurt you have to leave. I had just stepped foot in the Ngorongoro, I had several hours ahead and safari, however, already felt the melancholy of the distance, again, would come between us. That immense feeling of freedom that the sheets transmit, yes, it would fade away too soon. Sometimes the efforts are fleeting outcomes. This must be, perhaps, so as not to sacrifice them to the implacable dictatorship of routine. So that they continue to be worthy of dreams that are not diluted over time, nor succumb to the tedium of mornings that seem like nights.
Sometimes the efforts are fleeting outcomes. This must be, perhaps, so as not to sacrifice them to the implacable dictatorship of routine
I was thrilled and exhilarated at the onslaught of sensations from one of Africa's myths. And, while, I was unable to retain the fullness of the moment, as if he was aware that in the future he would need a portion of that happiness and would not be able to find it in the back room of memory. It was not just about looking for wild animals with the delight of the sticker collector. Far above that, the gaze was lost in the ocher meadows of the Ngorongoro, on the crags of the old volcano, in the dry channels of the streams, and with it any past and future concerns.
I was never a fan of safaris before setting foot in Africa for the first time. I mean I had dreamed of getting to Sources of the Nile, with praying an Our Father in Chitambo at the foot of the place where the heart of Livingstone, with following the steps of Pedro Páez in Ethiopia, but the desire to get on an SUV following the trail of the big predators never bothered my desires. Over time I realized how wrong I was. In the Ngorongoro I began to be aware of my mistake.
Travel standing in an SUV, with the hood up, scattering your reflections across the savanna, it is unforgettable
It is true that in the busiest African parks animals are, inevitably, accustomed to the presence of man, persistent in his efforts to interfere in his daily life (those insatiable snoopers, however, they guarantee with their dollars the survival of these great wildlife sanctuaries). It is true that it is difficult to abstract when a dozen cars swirl around a lioness devouring the womb of a wildebeest. It is true that the continuous radio warnings among drivers, to catch up on the findings and earn the tip, epic subtract adventure. But it is no less true than traveling standing in an SUV, with the hood up, scattering your reflections across the savanna, it is unforgettable (footnote: in dry season, this pleasure is accompanied by a good portion of powder).
The intense emotion of a safari resides in that, nevertheless, nothing is guaranteed
The intense emotion of a safari resides in that, nevertheless, nothing is guaranteed. You can spend an hour waiting for a lioness, from which you only glimpse to distinguish the back between the grass, start running after a group of clueless gazelles and a simple gust of wind is enough to ruin the expected hunting scene. Enough for the gazelles to smell the presence of the predator and move away from its field of action. One hour! Only a couple of cars had the patience to wait for the outcome. And some reached the supreme trance already without battery in the camera, from using the zoom to try to locate the elusive lioness. I only have a photograph of those sixty minutes and every time I see those muscles in tension hovering above the cache of herbs I feel with the same intensity the emotion of that long wait, giddy memory today.
When I think of the Ngorongoro I long for that fullness of spirit that needs nothing else to be happy, even if it is ephemeral
Of course, the anatomy of that fleeting pleasure in the Ngorongoro is full of animals. The herd of elephants by the lagoon, kites swooping down to snatch tourists their lunch sandwiches, the snouts of hippos watching you, cheetahs stretching in the dry grass, the imposing antlers of a black rhino in the undergrowth, the flamingos turning pink the Lago Magadi. And finally, as the shadows begin to take over the Ngorongoro, the dry sounds of two elands, the thickest antelope, facing each other in the solitude of the twilight savanna.
When I think of the Ngorongoro, however, I especially remember the loneliness of the roads away from the busiest routes, approaching the walls of the volcano that seem ready to close on us at any time like the waters of the Red Sea after the passage of the Israelites. I long, above all else, that fullness of spirit that doesn't need anything else to be happy, even if it is ephemeral. I miss, I admit, the hopper who ruffles your hair, and hopelessly fills you with dust, while that melancholy that they call Evil of Africa begins to haunt you.
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