Madikwe Game Reserve — Read + Roam

After three weeks of sun, sand, cities, laughs, tears, and lots of wine, I’m somewhere over the Atlantic on my way home from my South African sojourn. My husband and I spent the last leg of this trip on safari in Madikwe Game Reserve, way up in the northernmost reaches of this southern country. And, well, it’s been a learning experience.

I learned that there’s nothing more terrifying than a pack of hyenas circling your Jeep with their teeth bared menacingly.

I learned that the world’s least restful nights are spent batting both real and imagined bugs away while you sleep.

I learned that it’s possible to unknowingly put on a shoe containing a giant millipede, wear that shoe for a full three-hour game drive, and notice only upon removing it that the millipede has bitten you and squirted poisonous pus into your wounds.

And I learned that, much as I might wish to be, I’m not much of a safari person.

These past few days, as I awoke at 5:00am for the first of each day’s game drives, bumped along seemingly endless stretches of savannah for hours at a time, and stared blankly into bushes waiting for some dangerous mammal to materialize, I thought often of David Foster Wallace’s essay collection, A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again.

Included in that collection is Shipping Out, an essay about what it’s like to feel alienated from an experience – in that case, a luxury cruise – that others find rewarding. Like Foster Wallace, I feel creeping dread upon climbing aboard a cruise ship – the feeling of being swallowed by something entirely artificial, the sensation of being trapped, and the angst provoked by knowing that the thing I loathe is something many people – most people, even – love and look forward to.

This safari – to be fair – wasn’t quite like that. There was nothing corporate or contrived about the experience, no Disney-fication of the savannah. Quite the opposite – the reserve was quiet, we were led around by a local guide, and we stayed in a lodge so rustic that it seemed like it could have succumbed to nature at any moment. And the feeling it provoked in me wasn’t anguish, but ennui – the listlessness borne from endless repetition and a lack of agency. Every day on safari is the same and every day’s cadence – wake, drive, eat, rest, eat, drive, eat, rest – is beyond your control.

On this trip, I’ve visited at least a dozen bookstores, and in each one, something interesting or inspiring always grabbed my attention – a lovely setting, a curated selection, an overheard conversation, or a vivacious shop owner. But my imagination simply wasn’t active enough to find this safari similarly captivating from beginning to end. The first time I saw a herd of impalas, for instance, I was on the edge of my seat – oohing and ahhhing, snapping away with my camera, admiring their lithe grace. By the hundredth, I was just short of catatonic ( and reading a book covertly from the back row).

The experience had its charms, of course. We saw gorgeous sunsets in riotous colors. We off-roaded so aggressively that we popped a tire. We befriended a trio of South Africans who taught us local slang such as “shap,” a word of almost unlimited utility in which the ‘a’ is drawn out, long and lazy. And, of course, we saw a lot of cool animals: the Big Five minus the evasive leopard, the entire cast of the Lion King, a million deer-like objects ending in ‘bok,’ many lovely striped and dotted things – from zebras to giraffes to kudus – and many not-so-lovely wildebeests, which look like demons from hell.

Upon reflection, I should have seen this coming. I love cities. And in cities, all my favorite things are man-made. I thrill at charming streets, at impressive skylines, at people-watching (and even eavesdropping). The lives and spaces and passions of others are my preoccupation. And no pack of lions – even when they’re stalking prey or snacking on a black rhino – can compete with that thrilling thrum of human life.

So now, as if in pursuit of an antidote, we’re flying back to the heart of human activity, New York City. Roaming has been glorious, but I’m ready to read from home (at least for a week or two).