Jan 17 2007
Safari-Lite
We board what looks to be an old army transport – 5.5 women and another group of tourists. The other tourists sound like they are from the UK. The women are wearing hats and the men are in plaids or polos. They’re middle aged and have an easy camaraderie. They look ready to have a good time. We have 2 tour guides. Both men, both trim and wearing khakis with Buffelsfontein patches.
When I visit a tourist location and see a stereotype, it makes me wonder if it’s real or if it’s been created to meet my expectations.
I’m in Africa. I’m in a game preserve. The staff are dressed in khakis and hiking boots. I realize that stereotypes are based on fact. Light colored clothing with plenty of cargo pockets makes sense in a hot environment: the light color reflects the sun and the stunning array of pockets are perfect for evenly distributing your cell phone, wallet, car keys, tube of sunscreen, lip balm, utility knife, aspirin, flashlight, whistle, flask of brandy, bandages and Altoids. No Man Purse here.
I also know that sometimes it is good business to give clients what they expect. It would be jarring to go on safari and see the guides in jeans, baseball caps and running shoes.
In a similar vein, when I showed up to breakfast this morning I said to Laverne, “I’m not making fun of you.”
Laverne took in my dark khaki ripstop pants and hiking boots. She was wearing jeans. She gave me one of her lip-ruching, eyebrow-puckering-with-a-dash-of-squint Looks.
“I bet you think that all the tourists running around dressed like me are thinking that this is how we’re supposed to dress in South Africa.”
I intoned “South Africa” and looked off into the distance.
Laverne nodded, ruched her lips again, said, “Ya.”
“I thought so. But this stuff is for travelers – it’s lightweight, you can wash it in a sink and drip dry it overnight – it wicks perspiration and some even have an SPF rating!”
“So we’re not making fun of you by dressing like we’re going on safari. It’s not a look we’re after. I know I look stupid. But this stuff works.”
Laverne considers this. She may give up the idea that khaki-sporting tourists are silly but not on the fact that I look stupid.
We’re all loaded in the army transport vehicle. The wind has picked up and dark clouds are moving in. The other tourists are bundled up in massive olive drab parkas provided by the 2 guides. We head out, rumbling along. It all feels a bit like Safari-Lite. Sure we’re in an old army transport but there are rough trails and the animals are fairly easy to spot. No clouds of dust. No blinding hot sun.
The older guide, ruddy and mustached is doing the talking. The younger one is driving. Mustache is playful and joking, Young Guy is the knowledgeable straight man. Mustache knows quite a bit about the animals on the reserve but when he needs more details, he defers to the Young Guy.
We bump and heave around the uneven terrain. I’m sitting in a great photo-taking location: in the back at the end. We stop every so often, Mustache pointing out various animals and teasing one of the female tourists by speaking to her whenever he discusses mating habits. She notices this and laughingly asks, “Why do you keep looking at ME when you talk about this stuff?”
It does get very cold and even starts to sprinkle a little. The other tourists huddle deeper into their parkas and Laverne and Shirley have taken the wool blanket off the seat and tossed it around their shoulders. I wrap a scarf around my neck and zip up my windbreaker. I look at Linda and her mother, M. No blankets for them. I’m impressed. Not a shiver.
We see giraffes in the distance and watch ostriches run out of our way. Running ostriches look like feather pillows bobbing along in the sea.
Mustache points out the various types of antelope. I couldn’t recall all the names as he was mentioning them, but they all seemed to end in bok.
Bontebok, Springbok, Gemsbok, here a bok there a bok everywhere a bok-bok.
I didn’t get to see the animals up close and personal. Fine by me.
Linda’s daughter, A, was braver than I. Check her out:
