No Secret Where Elephants Walk POETR Y & IMAGES t AFRICA
CAROL AND ARNIE KANTER
No Secret Where Elephants Walk POETR Y & IMAGES t AFRICA
CAROL AND ARNIE KANTER
© 2010 by Carol Kanter and Arnold Kanter. All rights reserved. Published by P & I Press 1226 Judson Ave. Evanston, IL 60202 info@whereelephantswalk.com No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. ISBN-13: 978-0-615-32889-8 Library of Congress Control Number: 2009911930 Printed in China Cover Photo: Sable, Kenya
Acknowledgments: “Cleansing the Kill”—Earth’s Daughters, “Splinters & Fragments,” Issue #72, 2008. “Mourning Ritual”—Common Ground Review, Vol. 9, No. 4, Spring/Summer, 2007. Versions of the following appeared in a chapbook, “Out of Southern Africa,” 2005, published by Finishing Line Press: “Absence on the Magkudigkudi Salt Pans” “Amphibious” “Art of Dress-Up” “Assailable Warthog” “Cape Buffalo” “Meerkats of the Kalahari” “No secret where elephants walk.” “Ostrich Attraction” “Pride” “Rapprochement” “Scary Veldt” “Statuesque” “Still Life with Giraffe Head” “Termite Monarchies”
Introduction Taking photographs and writing poems have both challenged us and allowed us to extend the pleasures of our journeys, keeping them vivid in our memories. These pursuits have also allowed us to share our travel experiences more fully with family and friends. We are fortunate to have traveled widely together, but have always worked on our chosen artistic pursuits independently. When we considered a friend’s suggestion that we publish a book that combines our poetry and photography, we were surprised to find how often our two different “takes” fit together. In retrospect, this is not so surprising. We were, after all, on the same trips. And forty-five years of marriage probably helps, too. Though each poem relates to the photograph it accompanies, it does not necessarily reflect exactly what the photo captures. Rather, we offer our separate reactions to what we saw and experienced, in some cases similar and, in others, quite different. In only a few instances were poems written specifically to accompany photos in this collection. In this volume we combine the poetry and images from three trips to Africa—South Africa, Botswana and Zambia in 2003; Kenya and Uganda in 2004; and Kenya and Tanzania in 2008. All three helped us to discover more about our world, and our selves. We are pleased to invite you to share these trips with us, and hope that this book may inspire some of you to prolong and enhance the enjoyment of your own travels through the exercise of your particular artistic talents. Carol and Arnie Kanter Evanston, Illinois April, 2010
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Répondez, S’il Vous Plaît Come sample Africa to feast— through camera lens and scrim of mind— on veldts, lakes, deserts south and east Meet people, cheetah, wildebeest and should a view or line release some thoughts beyond, then on those dine Come sample Africa to feast through camera lens and scrim of mind
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In Camp Groomed, this oasis, and hard-won but not cordoned off from, say, the larger cats. Animals are free to venture in but tend to spurn unnatural habitats. Birds, of course, take full advantage, come routinely minutes after dawn. They own the early mist, troll for breakfast crumbs (caramel rolls they much prefer to scones). Despite birdsong, silence wraps the scene, and swaddled in the chill that lingers here stray ideas, wild waking dreams congeal, vibrant in dew’s silver mirror— mosaics, say, of cats who gaze on kings— while a-tremble, daylight crouches in the wings.
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Adolescent On break from tussles with his twin beneath the bush where their mother left them where they rolled around, mouthed each other’s necks and—on their backs in dappled shade—pawed air. Suspended, the home-school lessons on how to slink into tall grass crouch silent, eyes wide. Already he has learned how under cover of dark to ambush small prey rehearsal for the larger game he will hunt and kill once he grows into his giant paws. He will claw-mark trees and lay down urine claims, intent that all respect his bailiwick. Turning his spotted back on child’s play— not to say, on joy— he will stalk his range alone.
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A Snapshot Stage Her teenage boyfriend has adorned her with these heavy strings of beads signs of his infatuation, his temporary claim which she keeps on even when she sleeps. Theirs, a practice coupling, a rite of passage for trials at giving and getting at bonding, loyalty, obedience to customs set by the community at large. They knew, from the get-go, her family promised her to some tribal elder who will take her for a wife, remove her to his own village circle. She will go circumcised, unencumbered by her necklaces, to a mud hut she must build for herself, for her children— rarely to see parents or beau again.
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The Ubiquitous Impala On its buttocks, the McDonald sign— not gold, but a black arched “M”— brands this antelope “fast food” served far and wide, fair game for all. Wolfed down in quantities by the big cats by jackals, by wild dogs, how can it escape prime mention on world-watch endangered lists? Within two winter weeks does turn out a full new crop of fawn and when the weaker, slower, luckless young fall prey, the others carry on brown eyes brimful of will to live to multiply. On orange alert—heads high ears and nose a-twitch—off they streak at the earliest whiff of danger, all in one direction, a strong arc wind rippling tan and cream through tall, dry grass that opens, closes up susurrant as water that erases where gentle life has passed while in its wake lilies rock upon their scalloped pads.
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Safari View the veldt’s large mammals in their natural habitat the ones most people boast about, but please don’t stop at that. Take interest in the smaller ones, of some you’ve never heard like the umpteen kinds of antelope. And DO NOT MISS THE BIRDS.
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On Wealth Self-named cowherds of the world, they walk for miles on legs reed thin and kudu long. They learned from youth to dance in Maasai style with sandaled feet that spring Air-Jordan strong, well-nourished by the cows they tend and count like living gold, cows they milk and bleed with just-so frequency in set amounts, cows they thank and praise by wearing beads, elaborate strings that ripple white and red. But a man must pay her father precious cattle each time he settles on a girl to wed— how many wives true measure of his mettle. So, streaking the veldt like crimson-breasted birds sons, swathed in blood-red prints, attend the herds.
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No Secret Where Elephants Walk They strip bark, trample underbrush, uproot bushes in wide swaths, topple enormous trees.
though the wind whistles warnings through the large round symmetric hole in the matriarch’s flapping earlobe
To deal with such destruction, officials in Zimbabwe cull whole families leaving none to mourn, none to remember.
its tune the triumphal march from Aida, the part where women dance with tambourines the crescendo part where all hail the parade of real-live horses and elephants decked out with conquerors.
But South Africa lets nature take its course, so elephants graze the vast reaches of Kruger Park approachable and unafraid
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Statuesque Unnamed in the “Big Five” he stands a cut above in silhouette against blue sky
In one calm line the prepossessing four stride—right legs, left legs, right—glide with such slow grace the choreography conceals
arrayed in brown reticulate from knobby head with stubby, tufted, no-trophy horns to bad-rap cloven hooves.
their deadly kick. They sashay within the lions’ range to stare them down as if they mean to say “We see you so forget your kill-by-stealth routine.”
He eats the highest tender leaves only elephants can reach to share.
Off the zebras trot while the cats, longtongued, yawn their innocence.
Without herd or land, he solos free of “our” and “mine.” But when he sees two lions wake, sit up and sniff zebras grazing near him— too low to see so far— he and three cohorts form an ad hoc posse to arrest the carnivores before they act.
Such peace walks may not rate a noble prize. But when you add these to their size, surely giraffe merit mention in the “Big Five.” And if you cannot pick which other animal to nix? Just bump up the list to a “Big Six.”
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At Home in the Manyatta Life is simple if not exactly easy Each woman has her roles a number before the title Wife beauty etched by sun, wind, work onto face and hands and feet Matters of subsistence leave choice behind in burnt-orange dust As for happiness— no guaranteed pursuit— tamp it into one small gourd and carry it around.
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On Shielding Offspring: The New “Tommy” Gazelle Still wet. Fur plastered to his body. So drained by birth he can hardly blink. He tries to stand on twig legs. Totters. Falls. How can four limbs carry him in one direction? He sees his shadow mother move away. Two drunken minutes speed by. He zigzags after her. She sidles off, not letting on how hunger prowls lest—warned too young— he flash-freeze in fear. But across the plain she has spotted a jackal— tail down, head low—running through the jowl-high grass.
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Little egrets grow in stature perched on the small abandoned boat drinking in late sun rays, a trio of nonchalance as though who cares if wayward fish dart beneath the rippled surface tempting them and fate? Earlier they snagged their limit ate their fill and never learned to play catch-and-release. Like most creatures of the wild they do not kill or torture just for fun but pose unaware how they feather fine a scene— clean white against the flaking paint as it bleeds onto the lake.
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Robben Island On the hour, tourists ferry to this prison where Nelson Mandela served 18 of 27 hard-lost years for politics of race. Inmates with less familiar names— survivors of tortures that maimed body, mind, soul— now lead tours here. In a loud bass monotone the guide recites matters of fact, horrors that wrack, shame and so shock listeners they fail to burn the details into memory— though his large hands slice the air for emphasis— except for that one raw Truth which he regrets cannot bear Reconciliation: his endless wait for that date— set months ahead— when promised his father would visit and how, as dusk crawled in, the iron warden tolled, “Today your father was killed.”
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The Scary Veldt The safari promises “The Big Five” those most sought by hunters for their heads, their skins, their tusks, their horns and for the sport
could do a human in, not to mention the hippo and the crocodile, known to drown whoever dares to venture near.
of killing something large and dangerous. We go to glimpse the wild, unrefined. I go convinced we will emit safe vibes
Indeed, I have no urge to swim with these. But I must constantly remind myself when the others come within an easy reach
so must keep telling myself that fear itself is not the only thing to fear while here— that the lions lazing tawny in the sun,
that I am not to hug that shaggy mane, stroke those silken spots, or horns of bone or hair, this roughly wrinkled, pink-tipped trunk.
the mommy leopard licking clean her cub, the cape buffalo who suffer ox peckers to perch on them and pick off parasites,
I recall my younger daughter’s fond good-bye: “Mom, if you get eaten by a lion, I’ll be really pissed.” I fail
the rhino and the elephant with skin impervious to slights, who lead the lives of vegetarians—all, they say,
to fear creatures so theatrical. But do not think me brave. I quake when buzzed by the unseen mosquito out for blood.
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Mahale Chimp Allow me to introduce myself. Darwin’s the name. Or so they’ve called me for twenty-seven years. But I cannot return the favor, call them by name. You see, it’s hard for me to tell humans apart. They all wear hats. And khaki—neck to ankle— maybe to protect from flies and thorns since they have no fur. Light green masks cover the lower halves of their faces and catch coughs and sneezes, their mumbled mumbo jumbo. They emit no screams like ours as they traipse through the forest after us— even when we brush right by, even if we take a swat. The only variation in their species so far as I can see is the shape and size of the black box each holds and points at me.
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Hippo Haiku Enormous. Bulbous. Bloated, they loll in mud baths trying to keep cool.
with dire threats and duels that scythe deep scars on thick hides of the defeated,
Small ears, googly eyes keep their aqueous pods alert. They sink...surface...sink...
the victorious. Cheek by jowl they pack rivers, dominance the prize
But at night they prove amphibious, scale steep banks leave rivers, go graze.
humans also seek. So we rank as Number One hippo predator
Back in the water they luxuriate, excrete dung the catfish eat.
prime wildlife poachers who flash threats abroad, at home lest boredom mire us.
Now and then they yawn flash massive fangs in challenge fend boredom off
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The Pride The only male luxuriates in regal ruff as though born king of this non-jungle. One big momma lifts her head just long enough to yawn, flash teeth and loll her tongue. Two others watch us watch their five cubs scamper, wrestle, roll, mouth each other. Without maternal grunts one stands, performs her yoga stretch— head low, rear high, front legs straight, paws way out in front— then, nonchalant as any mom with kids at play in her fenced yard, one pads our way, her balance tail a tufted pendulum. She settles down beside our jeep in any fool’s arm-reach (but for the rules) and then her sister repeats her moves as if she means to double-team. They lie in perfect parallel, heads cocked high, seeming to focus on some far-off plain or time, each amber eye a globe that holds their age-old right to reign.
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Recital Make what you will of the cricket solo loud against his fellow strings’ white noise. It pierces my tent like an alarm some jokester set and hid beneath a young acacia ripe with thorns. Incessant, a one-per-second metronome— soft tremolo dead-center of its two-note beat— as though some Oistrakh out there plies his sure wing bow to lure a lady love. And though each measure sounds the same his nuanced fiddle’s braggadocio turns to pleas and nags, complaints how late she is, at last feigns grief—lest she never come. I did not fly all the way to Tanzania for this Chicago crickets’ long-lost cousin to disable sleep so resort to earplugs to block out his exhaustive din. But, alas, I also block out from behind friends’ zipped-up tent nearby yelps as a lion takes a zebra down and revels of hyena, come to steal the kill, laughing, laughing, laughing.
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In the Townships The sun beats down. No breeze. Movement seems asleep. But inside a nearby barn a local man teaches village children to sing and dance. Most, he has virtually adopted, their parents dead or sick from AIDS. In any case too poor. He gives them food, schoolbooks, this roof, this floor. Make-shift drums, stomping boots. Age five to seventeen perform skills sharp as machetes. Their energy electric. Such artistry would enrich the world if it could escape these confines, jump the shallow ditch where muddy water trickles by the main footpath—scant overflow from the one town pump. Could this troop erupt from here before the sun sears them into lethargy?
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Assailable Warthog Had he been on the hoof not wedged near the top of a tree at night we might have recognized his peculiar looks memorized from wildlife books:
Hard knots, or “warts,”— again he sports a second pair and grows them larger—may guard key places on their skulls but these do nothing for their faces.
His head a spade for beating foes, for digging up the roots he eats; his neck so short he must kneel to be able to reach his cropped-reed dinner table,
Spot-lit, displaced, up in that tree, ash gray, glint-red, halfeaten, he still bleeds with the leopard who stashed him caught in mid-deed.
and while he eats, head down, his high-set, bulging eyes keep watch, porcine ears perk up; four on-guard tusks “U” out— larger than hers, and an extra two,
We squint to make out the nose, the front feet of the homely, late warthog posing as meat.
though she alone fights back to save her piglets from attacks, then hoists her stringy tail like an Olympic torch gone dark to pass, an usher through the tallest grass.
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Gorilla Trekking Our tiny plane jounces low, lands at the lip of The Bwindi Impenetrable Forest. We mean to burrow in.
These giant beings do not sleep in caves or dig out dens. On the forest floor each builds a saucer nest of twigs, leaves and vines as if some mammoth flightless bird, more ungainly than the ostrich.
Here troop four families of mountain gorillas—largely at peace.
Fur instead of feathers protects against the cold, the rain—gentle as a mate’s love-grooming or thunderous as an alpha male’s breast-beating.
Years ago Dian Fossey’s story of these great apes and how they grew to trust her plunged me hip-deep into a yearning to be her, to face fantastic kin through the long-lost mist of time.
We reach fresh nests, trek on through the slick, the suction of rain forest mud. Vines lasso ankles, feet. Thorns grab socks, pants, sleeves. We tear away, jolt ahead.
The region’s governments—on and off unstable as volcanic peaks—impose strict rules: Buy permits in advance. Each day six track each family to watch one brief hour.
At last we peer through dense greens to see furry babies clamber and swing, juveniles bare teeth, practice wrestling, the lone male—his wide back sashed right across with silver but taking second place to none— choose and pick and peel and taste one sprig at a time.
Official papers and receipts clump together six of us to climb on faith that we will find and see the family “H” whose full local name stretches beyond hopeless. The trek: four hours straight uphill— one armed guard ahead, one behind. Both stay mute. They mean to keep us safe from human guerillas. Uganda thrives on tourist trade.
Through his leather mask of nonchalance amber eyes fix on what his thick fingers plucked as he sweeps a baby back into safe bush. We watch speechless lest human talk disturb. But somewhere on this climb my wish to be Ms. Fossey sloughed away. Risk malaria? Day after day slogging through rough Impenetrable Forest?
Trackers have gone ahead start where they left the H’s yesterday, find the beds they made last night, go from there.
Life, after all, is raw enough. 42
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Could they be more unlike? Small versus large is hardly the half of it. Soft, pure white set off against corrugated gray. Sharp, sturdy beak to pluck out insect delicacies. Supple trunk to gather in whole trees for meals. Denizen of water, ground and air often breaking into song. Trudger of the veldt rarely trumpeting. They flock or herd with others of their kind yet share this land, unthreatened each by each.
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Return Flight to Entebbe The same pilot. A different sky. Clouds the downy white of egrets but rimmed dark gray drink sunlight as though to quench a thirst and cast empty Rorschach vessels on the land today. By contrast, nothing but our tiny plane threw its moving shadow on the earth before. Imperceptibly the month has changed. We could not track the wider world whose shores pass in and out of sun and shade. Odd to be so out of touch, so insulated from whatever the latest hurricanes have wrought what ethnic wars keep raging in the name of gods what cryptic lessons—feared or much awaited— brandish ink-dipped quills, itching to be taught.
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The Cape Buffalo Like an old black-robed barrister he parts his gray wig smack down the middle, pastes it low on his wide brow, flips it up fancy at the sides. But he stands ready to hook horns with whoever questions his authority in fields where he holds sway. He lumbers forward, head slumped below his shoulders, humbled by his chosen work of chewing over matters to usher in a more just world.
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Zero-Sum Game Black marks run down a cheetah’s face like tears from the inner corners of her eyes to dull sun glare. They help her scan the rather distant herd, spot a baby Tommy, focus as her slow, brief stalk gives way to high-speed chase, grab, stranglehold. Often she interrupts her meal, sits tall to scan for others—vultures or hyena, say—who may be out to steal this kill before she eats her fill. She ignores Tommy’s mother on the near side of the now more distant herd. Staring. Frozen. At a loss.
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Dry Eighteen elephants in caravan. Height as varied as Mt. Kenya’s jagged peaks. Ears flap wide to catch a puff of cool like flags that ripple in the softest breeze.
It is as if they travel on higher moral ground. Now and then some human may intrude. Wealth of ivory. Or, let’s Save the Trees. To limit foliage decimation, some countries cull whole families fearing any left might rage, somehow retaliate—
The plain is flat and vast, sun glare magnified and choked by dust. Ochre as far as the eye can see where Lake Amboseli mirrors blue after the rains.
or, perish the awe-filled thought, might grieve. No amount of rain restores the acacia forest. Sorely needed, rain is late this year. Their patient trunks swing like the pendulums
But now the elephants walk for miles to drink. The matriarch ignores the watery shimmer of the heat mirage well this side of the horizon.
of grandfather clocks. A mute and languid choreography. They sniff for storms for traces of ozone that herald the lake’s return.
She cannot be fooled. She herds from the rear and sets the pace at slow. She watches the distant Maasai watering their cows, stalls until they move away.
From each large gentle footstep a cloud of dust rises vague and loose as the holograms a séance lifts by faith: Nature will provide.
I look between her long curved tusks into old eyes. I need her to know my first great friend might have been her grandmother. How Miss Jim lumbers through my dreams.
The youngest calf stretches up her trunk between her mother’s rear legs for a long drink. The family gain the waterhole, wade in, luxuriate then start the long walk back for food.
She nods her head, returns my steady gaze. She ambles her family forward, grown daughters flanking their calves. the whole wedge led by seven macho bulls.
At sunset gold light rims white clouds—halos the Maasai call The Lakes of Heaven. They promise rain. But not today. Not even tomorrow.
“We have no wish to fight but come prepared. We shall protect our young.”
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Crossing the Mara Zebra balk along both shores. Hard-wired to swim this route they seem confused— Toward which bank should they head? They scream to each other across the muddy water. Their calls radiate distress. Five wade in, paddle like there’s no tomorrow, reach the far shore. A dozen more, thinking better of it, do the reverse and come back the other way. Do most imagine greener grass on the other side? They know what dangers lurk. In shallows downstream, crocodile guard a water-logged striped rump that floats its warning like an overturned canoe.
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And what is worth your while? Nets fray and rip with constant use from thrashing fish from snagging rocks, debris and hooks from the sheer weight of success. Imagine the vigilance. They require daily care to spread, clean out whatever got stuck and when hopelessly entangled excise the clogged up mesh. Imagine the pluck. Then to repair— Clove hitch floats and weights pulled loose. Thread your net needle. Sew tears and worn out spots. Just imagine the patience.
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Jezzep He was four years old in Head Start when his teacher planned a field trip to a zoo. She almost said he could not go— through no fault of his own— because his schizoid lack of self-control pricked her fears he would get lost. But she assigned an extra adult to keep track of him. And I did my job, stayed close at hand when, oblivious of all else, he yelled into a cage, “Hi, Lion, Hi, Lion, Hi” or toward a tire swing above his head, “Hi, Monkey, Hi, Monkey.” He waited for Lion and Monkey to reply, while I chalked up this mindset to Pathology. So what does it say about my mental health that here on safari I feel this urge to greet each animal? Oh, let me reassure you I do not expect replies from Lion or from Monkey. Although, were I to be completely candid, Elephant is another matter.
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The White Rhino He is still young, an orphan brought here for this park’s protection. Built like a new-armored tank he tracks our jeep unaware that humans hunt his kind for their “horns� of matted hair some use as aphrodisiacs or to cool a raging fever down. But in this place he could grow into his over-sized, three-toed feet to join the rest of his endangered species. So he galumphs along while our driver speeds up, swerves tries to shake him as he runs alongside or trots behind. I think, Herbivore. Anyway, he seems upbeat and unafraid. Head high, ears perked, perhaps his lonesome self wants company and our tank-like shape prompts him to ask, Are you my mommy?
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Termite Monarchies Each successive queen bids architects: Construct additions. The drones, her plasterers inveterate, then gnaw up plants and mold to elaborate her unique castle, condo spread, or steepled shrine—fossil-hard and porous gray, ivied or nude, perhaps festooned with tent-web spider gauze. Here and there, and there again they rise monuments to enterprise that stud the earth and tack the topsoil down. And when a queendom dies, its custom home remains— shelter for some creature mongoose-sized, a landmark on this road-less tract to aid the wistful visitor who someday will come back.
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To Be a Good Bush Guide First you must own seamless people skills. Call every client by name. Have patience without seeming to need it— while you identify waterbuck for the fifth time during the same game drive. Maintain a sense of humor— chuckle at stale jokes, tell fresh ones seeming not to notice whose are funnier. Serve picnics as if the queen had come to tea.
Be adept at mimicking birdsong so you can prompt that call again as you open a guidebook to the exact page which offers portraits of this bird. Offer up insects, plants. Who eats what. Which are poisonous. What leaves, roots the Maasai use for each disease. Have detailed mental maps of the territory— however vast—know when in cross-country pursuit of lion, how to get back to Go. Drive as though weaned on stock-car derbies where tracks have no pit stops, no help at hand.
Exude confidence so everyone feels safe. It goes without saying that you must be fluent in your clients’ language—which is not your own— so you can share what you see and know.
With patient good humor, serve sundowners and ooze confidence while you fix the jeep that breaks down out in the wilds.
Spot birds and animals, of course— often from great distances— and give species, sex, age, habits, calls.
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Mourning Ritual Maasai men grow long hair dye it burnt red as iron-laden earth braid and loop it into manes and top it off with strands of colored beads. But when a family member dies a man shaves off his mane to show the world he suffers loss. After weeks fuzz forms, in months kinks appear, but it takes years for hair to grow out long. He combs through memories awaits the slow pomade of time. But his hair— its pristine texture— will never be the same again.
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A Different View As a child what grabbed me most in New York City was not Broadway, Miss Liberty, the Empire State but that faithful shrine to Natural History, its window of flamingos flown in straight from untamed Africa to paint their blue, blue lake with stripes and dots of pinkish rose. They gather here, this snake-necked, leggy crew to mate, to nest, to fish, to drink‌to pose. I wish to see this splash of real-life birds and ask our trip be planned to check them out. Perhaps the travel agent missed my words misjudged or failed to learn migration routes. But flying between camps I look down on a whim at this blue, blue lake. And thick pink hugs its rim.
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Kilai is hard to understand. He tries; we fail, must ask him to repeat three times and may not get it then. We wish—to no avail— we had Swahili words to put in play. All said, his English may not be to blame. And the bigger problem is we recognize so few of Kenya’s birds, the trees he names. Ten types of acacia I cannot memorize. The names of trees back home are none too clear. And New World birds I learned in second grade seem distant kin to those he labels here. But Kilai points to crowned crane gathered in a glade to do their evening slow dance before they nest their calls clear as Bolero to ears from the West.
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Elephants are so much easier to know. But Mike can identify each zebra by its stripes— Dash-Dot; Dot-Y; H; L-Underlined. He reads the hieroglyphs at their rear hip joints where three black slants of lines converge—from behind, from round belly, and up the leg—to make a pattern unique as any fingerprint. But at the next camp, Grevy’s zebras graze, their stripes all running parallel. No hint their stripes might meet to form a tell-tale rune. What new alphabet would Mike devise so he could know each Grevy? He might code ear notches, how white-to-cream their undersides, tails’ swish-swish beats. Or simply read the names oxpecker beaks have etched along their manes.
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Vantage The cheetah sits tall atop a termite mound, her ribs curved ridges beneath her silken fur. She scans the surrounding plain, her cub unperturbed nearby. A herd of Tommy gazelle appears at the edge of sight. She begins her approach—measured, tightly wound. The cub troops after her. Fixing on the youngest, smallest, she marks him as prey, creeps in close then takes off with such dazzling speed her cub cannot keep pace falls behind, slows waits sure his mother will return. She has brought back food like this before. And much as you abhor violence, you root for her. This is, after all, the way of the wild. But had you been watching the gazelle first-off, you might be cheering less.
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Field Work Time and again the Maasai guide, bare-eyed, spots animals a long way off
or another unfamiliar being to bale up like that final straw inside my camel brain.
names each dot and then goes on to say what it is about—
Nearby late sun glares off the dry gold grass, cover for a small tan dik-dik—
eating, sleeping, sitting, yawning, twitching tail or ear—
stock still but for his nose— and a golden leopard slinking low.
while with binoculars I scan the distant hill not doubting him but under strain
My eyes burn and tear, tired from so much squinting
to pick out against the gray-brown cliff the brown-gray shape he calls
into bright sun and dust-whipped wind while the dik-dik scents
not just generic antelope but eland, Thompson or Grant’s gazelle, impala,
an eye-high broken reed tip with a teardrop
topi, hartebeest, kudu, waterbuck, sitatunga, gerenuk, klipspringer, oryx,
as if to draw a limit on the leopard’s tract and mark this patch of veldt as his.
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Man and chimp share 98% of their genes. Alofu, Alpha Male before Pim took charge, now ranks as Number Two but hopes to reign again someday. I stand to the side on the forest path but film him as he passes and swats my leg. Not that I could gauge his affect. Did he make contact simply to say howdy-do? Did he object to my viewing him up close in his deposed state? Or was he trying to say, Who are you to share my path, my forest, my mountain, my world? And I know just how he feels— if truth be told—I resent the presence here of different chimping groups. I do not always play so well with others, and usually opt out of games. So I fail to recognize Alofu’s swat for what it is— Gotcha, you’re It.
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Wrapped in Meaning Steady gaze, crossed arms signal a self-protective Welcome. Unaware of Abel’s fate, he herds the village cows shares the task with others— men and older boys The community depends on them. But more than that. They see themselves as caretakers of the cattle of the world. No urge to argue about this view. He knows who he is.
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Samburu Village Windowless and snug, huts let out smoke through one small hole in thatch. Little sunlight enters. Children spend their days outside learn to care for animals for each other. Girls haul wood and water. Nothing mass produced no stores. Only toys or games they make themselves. Two nine-year-old boys play catch with balls of scrunched up plastic bags, covered with cloth, tied tight with string. A toddler crawls on the dusty ground pushing his truck, a salvaged plastic bottle balanced on four rickety wood wheels. Youngsters listen to elders drum and sing, watch them dance then imitate as children do. As children anywhere would do.
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Absence, On the Magkudigkudi Salt Pans A kind of lunar scape. A gray-white expanse whose waters used to lap to where the earth bows down but dried up, draining off all color, sound leaving only salt in a thick crust. Above this plain, on the cloudless stretch of sky, not even temporary vapor trails sketch thin lines between two arbitrary points—one end tacked down, the other on the move like the slow rill of recorded time—and once the sun goes down, perfect darkness waits to hear each separate star click on.
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Meerkats of the Kalahari Desert Morning trumpets reveille down hole after hole where the small ground force encamps, to rouse the company— thirteen strong— from hidden trenches.
Each mans a sand-hill outpost—pointy coal-button snout whipping side to side to side to whiff the wind and scout for vermin with deepset, black-masked eyes—
One by skinny, furry one, up they pop to sit erect hanging front paws limp, waist high, as if tucking thumbs in gun belts.
until some All-Clear moves the troop in single file on yellow alert, tails aloft like flags to rally around and go hunt down red scorpions.
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The Lion Honeymoon He pursues; turning on him, baring teeth, she roars, I have a headache! She plops down near him eyes wide, ears flicking off flies rear angled away. When she is ready he hopes she will let him know. Meanwhile, he’ll lay low though she tries patience and how much longer must he act solicitous?
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The Hippos Demur They grunt and snort as they perk their pig ears and raise heavy-lidded eyes out of the river meaning to spy on whosoever spies on them and before the camera clicks or even brings them into focus they sink beneath the water without a ripple to hint— such ingrates as they are not to care who admires them or how— where they have gone where they might reappear where to point the useless camera. Perhaps they see photographers armed with aim-shoot gear as coming here to steal their souls.
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Flamingoes At Long Last There are flamingoes on the private lake where we are staying. But I insist we drive two bumpy hours to Lake Nakuru where thousands gather, a grass-roots throng. All because a museum diorama captivated me when I was ten I need to see firsthand that endless panoply of pink. What can live up to so much expectation? Lesser Flamingoes flash pinker than their Greater whiter cousins until the midday Kenyan sun bleaches out Hope’s color. Then it hits me—the diorama promised sunset to rosy up the birds. Further, it failed to own up to the stench of salt water edged not only by flamingo rafts but by a battalion of white pelicans and the odd Marabou stork who strolls past lone cape buffalo— mavericks knee-deep in lake mud, out of sorts, waiting for some tide to turn.
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November 2008 We have escaped the final weeks of the campaign— promises and slurs, voters’ heightened passions TV ads, gross expenditures pollsters’ day-by-day predictions. Meanwhile, here in the land of his father everyone pulls for Obama to win. Earlier this year Kenya’s election stirred so much unrest— well, killings, in fact, as both sides claimed fraud— that tourists cancelled their safari plans. Even after the two candidates’ tribes reach compromise and leaders stand together—at least for now— travelers steer clear. Would we have dared this Rift Valley had we known that other tribes—Samburu and Turkana— have escalated a two-year war to raid each other’s cattle their spears exchanged for guns? We go home in time to cast our hopeful votes assured that lawyers will volunteer at polls this time to monitor against fraud and that the losing candidate’s supporters may threaten to move to Canada but will not take up arms.
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To Fight or Not To Fight We watch two elephants go head to head— lock tusks and push trying to gain the high ground. My husband says, It seems a game. It lacks intensity. Granted, we are too far away to hear the clash of ivory spears or trumpetings of rage or fear or ownership. Our friend does not challenge, Outrageous. This battle is for real. Rather he observes, That implies you’ve had vast experience with elephant fights. Quick, his reply, Yes, I used to referee ‘em. My take-away—Avoid going head to head but fight as poets write, a-slant.
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On Grasslands The heavy rains fell short last spring Cheated out of usual reserves grazers have no Plan B. Sated, the hyenas leave rib cages of zebra and wildebeest for wind to whistle through on its way to stirring up dust devils at odd points, near and far, as if that Force might birth Form from particles. Here, even in rainy seasons new-formed beings cycle into prey… carcass…carrion…then bones that crumble back to dust. But ribs and mini-whirlwinds whisper how everything depends on water.
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Papyrus Its tassels tickle the sunbeams, make whispered click-clicks as though speaking Taa, that endangered tongue of nearby Kalahari Bushmen who know this land, its offered wealth, the science of trapping game— how to tie and place a loop of rope to capture a springbok by one hind leg— the art of making fire— how to speed-twirl a pointed stick in wood shavings piled in the hot sun. What need have they to harvest papyrus for scrolls like ancient Egyptians north in the Nile Delta? These plants rise ten feet into clean air along banks of the Okavango Delta— that mysterious wetland sprawl surrounded by desert—this eden where green little bee-eaters weave like winged weft among the warp of reeds.
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Rapprochement Not eight weeks old, the spotted kitty pads from the depths of the hollow tree trunk some elephant once stripped and felled. Lying guard at the lair’s open end, his mother licks him ear-to-tail. She lets him nurse, play-box her nose, then walk all over her. Dare he stray, she twists her neck, lifts her head to glare him back. Inside his log, he finds a window just his size, eaten out by dry rot, an open invitation. He sneaks through, a flap of tongue popped from his mouth the curious, naughty pink of bubble gum. A short trip. He knows he ought not, that if his mother caught on she would rasp her chary “No.” So wary to explore he goes instead to check on her.
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Still Life with Giraffe Did whoever propped my skull upright on this veldt guess my dying wish to warn the world about the hungry, ruthless jaws of lions? Picked clean of every softness—skin tufts of hair, muscle, sinew, eye, my brain— hollowed out, bereft and left alone, I wear a new long narrow crack that splits my left and right profiles, jagging from below my horns to the ragged void my chin once filled. Past fear, I pose reposed, though still regret I have no time to bleach pure O’Keeffe white before the night hyenas come. A pack will polish off my head and leave bone-white spoor behind, like ashes of their dead.
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Kori Bustard Taller than Turkey— white tail fan held smart above brown herringbone back— he crowns himself Stud. Even his partial display adds new starch to “Strut”. Mute, with mincing steps, he gives off the heady scent of Entitlement as if born to lure any female of right mind and all he need do is fluff up his stuff while male weaver birds must vie for mates by building elaborate nests their intendeds test and vet and when found wanting wooers must re-weave. None of that for this bustard. So he struts all day in vain ladies disinclined. He impugns their sanity— Who can fathom dames?
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Amphibious She waddles up onto the river bank, her skin taut as an overblown balloon— plastic, shiny a wet pink black, one plump piglet pattering behind, another, puddle-sized, stuck by her paunch (so cute I picture how he might paddle in my bathtub back home). But though her bloat may slow her some, my mind reruns how her large bubble eyes ride the night river, a double periscope that disappears when she gears open her cavern mouth where, pointing north, two wide-spaced dentin bayonets glint equipping her to do the mother thing— turn fierce to guard her young whatever comes.
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Lake Victoria Village The village hunkers on the shore of Lake Victoria, water alive with Nile perch.
“America.” “George Washington first president.” “One, two, three...” We smile, they grin.
A school of lively Luo children in bright and scanty clothes splash into the water to meet Eugene’s small boat.
We tour the meager Peace Corps station— part clinic, part recreation center for orphans and the elderly.
They know him. He lives here, too, more often fisherman than guide. He has brought them visitors before.
And when Eugene returns us to his boat the children help him push off and wave us on. Nearby
Children grab our hands, our sleeves, shepherd us past lean-to homes and stalls along unpaved passageways
birds—black, white, black-and-white— drawn by clamor from young nests swoop in and out a rocky isle
that run muddy from the overflow of barrels, bins and nets that hold fish waiting
where porous cliffs—part nursery, part playground—grant surer sanctuary while they too fish this lake.
to be sorted, salted, shipped off for sale. Our escorts practice their proud English words
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Beneficiaries of the Landscape Architects Termites may as well be in cahoots with the large and straight-horned lekking topi stag, to whom they lend their mounds as pedestals. In the current drought, an amber-colored shag carpets every rounded white ant hill to form a base where topi take on the guise of statues, alone, in facing pairs, or side by side. They plant their front hooves on the highest rise,
And termites may as well be in cahoots with the sleek and supple cheetah who picks a mound as today’s lookout for predators and prey, and the perfect couch to lollygag around. Her spotted body sprawls with the contour of the hill, as she lifts her long tail’s tip, then lets it rest. Her cub, mock-dressed like a scrappy honey badger in fluffy gray-white wrap, scampers to the crest
stretch rear legs—in stockings long and yellow— lower down one side to strike a pose they hold as if already sculpted there in the real-life style Remington once chose. But for the smudges that mark their hips with gray, they come pre-mounted, in a burnished bronze display.
while his mother looks away. Her black tear-streaks mute sun glare as she scans for food. She stops her head’s slow swivel course to stare, stroll down, trot off, then bolt from her cub. She returns to drop the young gazelle she caught and dangles by its throat. They gorge. On a new mound she licks clean their coats.
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Grooming The lecture on head lice at your child’s grammar school had listeners scratching scalps as if the auditorium were suddenly infested.
Chimps have no such qualms. No one gasps in embarrassed shock at what crawls in their fur. They need no special soaps own neither wool caps nor linens to scald pristine.
Epidemic the spread. Still, an embarrassment that nurse’s call asking you to come fetch Annabelle—
Their insect guests offer up chances for a parent, pal or mate to groom, convey the chimp equivalent of Te Amo and reap a snack besides.
Also an irritation and a bother to find and apply proper toxic shampoo, wash all the household linens in hot water, allow no play dates while you nit-pick for days until her head passes inspection and she can return to class.
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Turn About Mount Kenya hunkers down at the equator like a many-towered castle a moat might ring to daunt riffraff and medieval foes so they won’t breach the fabled home where king and queen receive those youths who climb to woo the grand-prize princess fancied in her décolleté. But she spurns the crested standards that they bear. About titles, riches, land, she has grown blasé. She travels south to find the highest mount in Africa, shaped more like a house of worship than a castle, its spireless dome most often lost in clouds. She would be spouse to Kilimanjaro, who reigns where she may not go, past purple slopes, beyond perpetual snow.
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It’s All in the Timing My husband timed this trip— no guarantees— to catch the wildebeest migration their wide and wooly train that fords and chokes this river packed flank by beard hour after hour. They say last week the dusty, brindle-coated grazers crossed right here though many hundreds still mill about these plains. So I will not get to, have to watch wily crocodiles snatch and drown the small, the old, the lame. I had planned to steel myself against memories of two wildebeest I once saw prance like shaggy satyrs who had learned dressage somehow. They danced the gold-mine joy of Pan’s goat-child. Not bestial. Hardly even wild.
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Locals They do not trek gorillas. Nothing in it for them. But in a small clearing in the thick of their Bwindi Forest below the long climb to where the mountain silverbacks hang out a posse of local men surround a crackly fire that heats a cauldron. From its stopcock a dented pipe slants down to a large drum which collects liquid— distilled juice of nearby banana trees. This moonshine can prompt grown men to grin and set their women grimacing.
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Ostrich Attraction Unlikely being. Ungainly for a bird. Too heavy for his black wings to let him fly. Yet handsome in a way.
flaps his flightless plumes so hard they stir up dust and raise him onto tiptoe where he manages a curtsy, sinking down into his body’s flounce as if in ballerina drag, courting the standing O, hot for something more from me than grass.
He paces along the front fence of the farmyard, ignoring his harem at the rear decked out in come-on ostrich gray.
He would seduce me to spring him from captivity so he may pick one mate then help her herd—and no excuse!— twelve helter-skelter baby birds.
He stares through the wire with long-lashed almond eyes, Egyptian wide, at my bouquet of offered grasses, at my hand, or me. Taller than the average man, he turns his lordly head on its stretched-up, scrawny neck faces full front and without warning
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Cleansing the Kill Fringes of the vultures’ dark wings flutter like prayer shawls raised in tribute for a passing soul. Claws spread, they land and hop the last few yards to reach the open carcass where they swarm and squabble for choice feed, wage a tug of war over zebra entrails—taut between hooked beaks— and sate themselves while a pair of marabou stork patrol the site like undertakers at the wake of an unknown soldier who, with his troop, had earned his many stripes dodging tooth-and-nail attacks. His bones begin to shine. Those bare-faced stork— tall, white-bellied, frock coats habit-black— then shoulder through the throng; long tweezer bills pick bits of flesh and blood to swill last rites.
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Ooooooooh! The five-year-old surveys her crayons and asks, “What’s your favorite color, Grandma?” A simple enough question. After all, she knows hers: Pink, of course. Until recently I might have waffled, “Well, blues and greens.” “But which?” she would have pushed. And I might have wondered why I had to choose. But no longer do we need to take this dip into murky waters of philosophy. “Turquoise,” I say, “especially if it shimmers.” I know this now thanks to the tiny sunbird on that bush outside my hotel room, whose shiny green-blue head and neck caught dawn light and tossed it to me through the window... and thanks to the common superb starling— so unlike our drab black species— whose uncommon glossy back of deep blue-green kept startling me... and thanks to the flying dung beetle whose carapace of metallic teal even today manages to steal my stingy admiration no matter what he eats.
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The Art of Dress-Up The stocky white horse turns down the job to carry Quixote, hoping to tilt alone against the evils of his veldt. He dons one central horn, a spiraled lance, but strong winds whoosh beneath his strapped-on wings and swoop him off as Pegasus into the northern sky. The rest of his white herd bray a ballad of bravery then wisely aim less high. But to mourn, each brush-cuts its mane paints its body, head and legs with stripes of funereal black and in between faint lines of shadow brown. like tracks stars burn across the sky for the lucky viewer to catch. Bunched in a herd, their stripes confuse where one body ends, the next starts, to spur on the illusory muse if not to poetry to Op Art.
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Family Planning The Samburu goatherd has strapped a stiff leather flap onto the belly of the only Billy goat just north of his penis. Now he cannot service the many nannies of his flock. He must wait. They all must wait. For promised rain. When there will be enough new grass so no kid starves. This tribe’s long limbs grow strong and lithe, stay lean on their finite, if not meager, food supply of milk and blood. But does this goatherd—or any other village elder— take such precautions servicing his several wives? Still nursing their two-year-olds, mothers may delay fertility. Each woman hauls firewood, burns clean her gourds to hold her family’s liquid sustenance unspoiled for one whole day. Her mud-and-wattle hut—with its dark, soft-blanket nook— sits across the manyatta circle from other wives’. In this community, no signs of jealousy. After all, women here have enough to do, enough to care for.
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The Saddle-Billed Stork: A Parable His miniature bright yellow saddle does not sit astride his back of black and white, but between his eyes where his long bill starts stop-light red, interrupted by a wide black band. Of striking height, he wades pulling one thin angled leg, then the other, high above the swamp while poking, poking in the water with his open beak. Late morning, he snags a catfish lunch. Nearby, a slim gray heron cranes his neck skyward where a fish eagle has spied the catch and dive-bombs in, so flustering the stork he drops the fish. Head held high, the eagle stands on it, shoots the stork a look that says, I am Eagle, you are not. And imperious as its American bald cousin, flies its loot off in a one-claw vise.
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Kenya Fishing Village On the northeast rim of Victoria’s freshwater expanse it perches wary of the unrest that rocks Uganda just west across the lake In this village Peace Corps helps supply fresh water Add this to a sufficiency of food—bananas, vegetables as well as fish— of clothes—serviceable and clean— of shelter—corrugated metal shields from winter wind from rains each summer afternoon Peace Corps runs a small clinic classes for orphans and for widows Enviable how villagers have no need to punch or even check a clock The sun’s prophetic tick across the sky tells when to knock off work kick off shoes commune Still, there is need. There is still need. And to us from the West Enough is a radical concept.
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Grace Personified Forget the swan. Think Leopard. Coat so elegant he would long ago have been endangered by hunters were he less shy, less nocturnal. As it is, high-end designers covet his skin, knock it off repeatedly. But faux pelts fall short cannot create such unique patterns, those rosettes that adorn his lithe body like the whorls in a human fingerprint. See him glide in dusky camouflage through gold-tipped grass, huge supple shoulders at work like silent metronomes that measure out grace notes beneath that coat. Effortless he leaps onto an inviting tree limb steps forward lightly, all four paws in one thin line. No gymnast executes more seamless moves on balance beam. Now watch how from his high branch he sticks that dismount.
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Please Come Again Dusk creeps in on lion paws to crouch beneath the plunge of night that blankets sunset’s greenish gauze Impala, zebra, warthog pause glad floodlights here are banned by law to spare dark eyes and not freeze flight Dusk creeps in on lion paws to lunge beneath the crouch of night
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In Appreciation Early in 2009, our friend Marilyn Susman suggested that we put together a book that combines Arnie’s photographs and Carol’s poems. She set us to mulling and, from that mulling, this book evolved. One World, our friend Michael Lewis’ book of beautiful photographs that he took in fifty countries, served as an inspiration to us. Beyond that, Mike generously shared his encouragement and experiences, which kept us focused and saved us countless hours and headaches. Our daughter Wendy Snell took a great deal of time to read the poems carefully and to offer insightful, sensitive and helpful comments. The comments and critiques of poet friends Maureen Flannery, Mel Furman, Deborah Rosen, and Arlyn Miller, helped shape and improve this work. Dave Jordano, our professional photographer friend, generously provided his guidance and expertise in improving the photographs. The advice, encouragement and good humor of our friends Steve and Sharon Fiffer provided moral support (and good counsel) for us in this project. Other friends took the time and interest to give this work what Adrienne termed “loving scrutiny”—Adrienne and Syd Lieberman, Bonnie and Marty Oberman, Bob Bennett and Harriet Tropp, Beth and David Hart, Michael and Valerie Lewis, and our favorite book-ish group (affectionately know as “The Group”) Naomi and Dan Feldman, Noreen and Gil Cornfield, Alison Edwards and Henri Frischer. Their loving scrutiny improved this book greatly. Our designer, Pat Prather, and printer representative, Eric Taylor, were responsive and professional in guiding production of this book. Finally, Michael Oberman—forever our best man—overwhelmed us by offering to undertake fulfillment of book orders through his company, Omeda, and its dedicated staff.
Carol and Arnie Kanter
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Carol Kanter Carol’s first published poem appeared in Iowa Woman (Spr/Sum, 1995). She won first prize in Poets and Patrons’ 1995 International Narrative Poetry Contest and subsequently has had poems published by Ariel, Blue Unicorn, ByLine, Explorations, Hammers, The Chester Jones Foundation, Kaleidoscope Ink, The Madison Review, The Mid-America Poetry Review, Pudding Magazine, The People’s Press, Rambunctious Review, River Oak Review, Sendero, Sweet Annie Press, Thema, Universities West Press, and a number of anthologies. Korone named her the Illinois Winner of its 2001 writing project. Atlanta Review gave her an International Merit Award in poetry in 1998, 2003, and 2005. Finishing Line Press published her first chapbook, “Out of Southern Africa,” in 2005, and her second, “Chronicle of Dog,” in 2006. Carol Kanter is a psychotherapist in private practice. She has a B.A. in biology, an M.A. in clinical social work, and a Ph.D. in Counseling Psychology. Her book And Baby Makes Three (Apocryphile Press, 2007) explores the emotional transition to parenthood.
Arnie Kanter Arnie is a writer and photographer and, in former lives, a lawyer and consultant. His books include: The Secret Memoranda of Stanley J. Fairweather; Kanter on Hiring; Improving Your Summer Associate Program; The Lawyer Hiring Handbook; The Handbook of Law Firm Mismanagement; The Handbook of Law Firm Mismanagement for the 21st Century; Advanced Law Firm Mismanagement; The Ins and Outs of Law Firm Mismanagement; Was That a Tax Lawyer Who Just Flew Over?; The Essential Book of Interviewing; The Lawyer’s Big Book of Fun (with Jodi Kanter); The Teacher’s Big Book of Fun (with Wendy Kanter); Is God a Cubs Fan?; Is God Still a Cubs Fan? No Secret Where Elephants Walk is Arnie’s first book of photographs. Arnie holds a B.A. from Brandeis University, a J.D. from Northwestern University School of Law, and an LL.M. from The London School of Economics. Carol and Arnie live in Evanston, Illinois, and are the parents of two daughters and the grandparents of three granddaughters and, by the time this goes to press, a grandson.
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Photographs P.3 P.5 P.6 P.9 P.11 P.12 P.13. P.15 P.17 P.19 P.20 P.22 P.24 P.27 P.28 P.31 P.33 P.34 P.36 P.39 P.41 P.43 P.44 P.47 P.49 P.50 P.53 P.55 P.56 P.59 P.61 P.62 P.65 P.66 P.69
Cheetah with Thomson’s Gazelle, Kenya Richard’s Camp, Kenya Leopard, Kenya Young woman dancer, Kenya Giraffe with Impalas, Kenya (clockwise) Superb Starlings, Pied Kingfisher,Secretary Bird, Lilac-breasted Roller, Kenya Yellow-billed Stork, Malachite Kingfisher, Kenya Warrior-dancers, Kenya Elephant trunk and tusks, Kenya Giraffe, Kenya Samburu woman in her manyatta, Kenya Thomson’s Gazelle with newborn, Kenya Egrets on old boat, Lake Victoria, Kenya Prison cell, Robben Island, South Africa Lion drinking, Kenya Chimp, Mahale, Tanzania Hippos in mud, Tanzania Lion cubs, South Africa Hyena, Kenya Man asleep in Soweto, South Africa Leopard eating Warthog, South Africa Silverback Gorilla, Uganda Elephant and Egret in swamp, Kenya Okavango Delta, with plane shadow, Botswana Cape Buffalo with Oxpecker, Kenya Cheetah eating Thomson’s Gazelle, Kenya Elephant herd, Kenya Zebras crossing Mara River, Kenya Young man mending net, Kenya Chimp, Mahale, Tanzania White Rhino feet, Kenya Termite mound, South Africa Guide searching for game, Kenya Barbershop in the townships, South Africa Flamingoes, Lake Nakuru, Kenya
P.71 P.72 P.75 P.77 P.78 P.81 P.83 P.85 P.86 P.89 P.90 P.92 P.95 P.96 P.98 P.101 P.102 P.105 P.107 P.109 P.110 P.112 P.113 P.115 P.116 P.119 P.121 P.122 P.125 P.127 P.129 P.130 P.13 P.134 P.136 P.138
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Crowned Cranes, Kenya Grevy’s Zebra, with Oxpecker, Kenya Cheetah, with Tommy kill and cub, Kenya Sable, Botswana Chimp resting, Mahale, Tanzania Young Samburu man with cattle, Kenya Samburu children, Kenya Salt Pan, Kalahari Desert, Botswana Meerkats, Kalahari Desert, Botswana Lion couple, Kenya Hippo, Tanzania Flamingoes in flight, Lake Naivasha, Kenya Guides for Obama, Kenya Elephants, Kenya Giraffe drinking, Botswana Papyrus in marsh, Botswana Leopard cub with mother, South Africa Giraffe skull, Botswana Kori Bustard, Kenya Hippo yawning, Tanzania Children and boat, village on Lake Victoria, Kenya Cheetah and cub on termite mound, Kenya Topi lekking on termite mound, Kenya Chimp picking nits, Tanzania Mount Kilimanjaro, Tanzania Wildebeest, Kenya Locals on the road, Uganda Ostrich with his brood, Kenya Vultures with Zebra, Kenya Blue-headed Agama, Kenya Zebras, South Africa Young wife inside manyatta hut, Kenya Saddle-billed Stork, Kenya Market, village on Lake Victoria, Kenya Leopard in tree at night, South Africa Zebras at sunset, Kenya