Each morning, outside the window of my self-catering rondavel hut, a family of warthogs scampered about. Several impalas always wandered around, determinedly. After a couple of days in the bush I became dismissive of their habits. That’s all it took. I had the zebras and wildebeests beyond the gates to go searching for. Adjacent the swamp was the camp’s restaurant; the restaurant’s deck overlooked the swamp. Every now and again, on the banks of the swamp, a crocodile slept. Time had a different pace; it’s the pace of letting your beard grow long. The long dirt road, baked the color of red bricks, stretched out from the Miliwane Wildlife Sanctuary to an intersection with a two-lane country highway. Manning the gate to the sanctuary was a tall man who couldn’t speak much English, carrying an elephant gun, wearing a Yankees hat. I never did find out where he got the hat; if I had my Red Sox hat with me, I would have had him exchange lids. It would have been a significant diplomatic victory for the nation, like the French flying the tri-colors next to the Union Jack somewhere too deep into East Africa. Since he didn’t speak much English and I don’t speak Swazi, we just gave each other a nod and a wave, and then I was off down the long dirt road. The road bent and curved, never quite parallel with the horizon. Young kids, maybe between the age of 5 and 9, littered the road, playing young-kid games and waving. I couldn’t help kicking up dust as I drove by. Before I reached the two-lane country road I could always see out my window a teenager shepherding cows along the ridgeline of the rolling hills. Maybe I have always underestimated the agility of cows. The best time to watch him herd them was at dusk. Soon after the sun sets, bright pinks and oranges reflect off the horizon, while the young teenager and his cows walk through the shadows. Momentarily the cows emerge from the shadows that are falling ever-further West.
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