Lost in Hotels (18 page)

There’s a rushed, rugged manner to his tone as his eyes wander the horizon and into the depths of the bush where it seems his true interests lurk.

“What are you looking for?” I ask.

“Well, we saw a female leopard wandering the area on our way to see you. She is the same one we saw last week but lost track. And now it appears she is back.”

My eyes join their own looking through the dense foliage hoping to identify the cluster of spots or piercing eyes of the poetic predator. The trekker dangles off the front of the vehicle like a piece of chum perched precariously on a seat suspended off the front bumper. The vehicle stops as talk turns to a whisper, and the trekker takes a few steps before kneeling and poking at the dirt.

“He is looking for fresh tracks to see what direction she has gone,” Duarte whispers before talking into a radio to share the details of the find.

Nogo points into the bush as he returns to his seat and grips his rifle secured at his side. The truck turns off the road and into thick shrubbery as the wheels that devour each tree and stump make a crackling sound before finding our way to smoother terrain.

“There, there,” the trekker says to Duarte as the vehicle changes direction and the lone leopardess makes her way across the grassy savannah like a displaced phantom in search of home. The truck inches closer, and then he turns off the engine as we move to a silent stop. The leopardess moves uninterrupted on a path that will seemingly collide with us. She stares us down with her magnetic eyes that don’t stray from the horizon. She only occasionally takes in a passing sound of baboons that play in the branches above.

“Does she not see us?” I ask in slight discomfort, worrying of our position. Sometimes guys like this will try to impress a visiting journalist.

“She knows we are here, but she does not associate us with anything more than a rock or tree.”

Then she vanishes under the eye line of the truck. Nogo grips his rifle, and Duarte moves back to give me a better view as the leopardess makes her pass by only inches from my foot that sits unprotected in the open vehicle. I can hear her breath as she passes, unbothered by her solitude or her admirers who absorb the godly sight without a single camera or a word as our eyes meet. Her magnificent coat seems close enough to touch as she comes and goes without changing in pace or purpose.

“Not bad for the first ten minutes,” Duarte says in a whispered voice. He starts the truck again and follows the leopard.

My adrenaline has made me forget my jet lag and even seeing David again. The bush makes everything in that world seem so inconsequential and far away.

“We will just follow her a little more to see where she is going. There is a pride of lionesses nearby, and it is very peculiar that she would travel in that direction.”

The leopardess continues uninterrupted on her singular journey, a focus unyielding as if where she is going has long come into view and the miles between are conquered with each enduring step. She is otherworldly; her luminescent coat looks almost oily to the touch as it reflects the African sun. The truck trails a few feet behind with the wake of a bulldozer taking down small trees and shrubs that come between us as the leopardess weaves her way through the brush in near silence with an unapologetic elegance.

“So we need to get you back to camp in order to meet up with Tamaryn and get you sorted before the evening game drive,” Duarte says.

“No worries, but that was truly incredible,” I say as my leopardess vanishes from view into the thick brush and beyond.

“Please remember to wear warm clothes. Don’t let this sun fool you; African winter is felt loud and clear come sundown,” Duarte warns. “Will you be alone for the evening?”

“Actually, I’m meeting up with a friend who should be arriving later this afternoon,” I reply, uncomfortable using words like boyfriend in regards to David.

“Well, we haven’t had word of any incoming flights, but I will double check for you,” Duarte continues. “If it’s just the two of you this evening, we can seek the game as you and your mate wish.”

Duarte hollers over the crackling sound of his radio to announce our arrival as ten minutes out as the downshifted engine collides with the smoother gravel road leading into Londolozi.

On the road, I see animals I don’t even know the names of living in this sublime utopia. A group of warthogs grunts across the dry terrain, and in the background, a lone giant elephant tears limbs off a eucalyptus tree.

Upon approach to the camp, a circular dirt driveway is lined with two men standing with trays as the vehicle comes to a stop. A tall, stately woman with an air beyond her young age grabs the handrail.

“Catherine, alas, you’re here. It’s so nice to welcome you to Londolozi.”

A flurry of staff rushes the vehicle as they hoist my bags over the metal sides, into the air, and onto a nearby ramp to avoid getting dirty. Her voice becomes softer as the motor stops.

“I am Tamaryn Steyn,” she says, extending her arm as we exchange a genteel shake. My own hand is still damp from the welcome towel as an attendant offers me a Pimm’s cup.

As I walk behind Tamaryn, the welcome chitchat is in full gusto. She asks me about my trip and my first game drive; I reply with curiosity as to the weather and game viewing ahead. My eyes, however, are transfixed on Tree Camp that will be my home. One of the reserve’s luxurious lodges impresses my already wide eyes. The entrance of carved raw stone supports a towering thatched canopy suspended among hundred-year-old trees conjoined by a cantilevered wooden terrace.

A sprawling living room open on all sides is exposed to all the elements of the African wild, both good and bad. The room is clothed in a glamorous mix of exotic animal print rugs and zebra fabrics muted by pristine white sofas and chocolate leather club chairs dotted in whimsical pillows, and tables clustered with stone bowls filled with curiosities that lure my eyes closer. Tamaryn leads me to a small reception desk that feels like her own where formalities of safari check-in include signing away any responsibility should things go bleak, agreeing not to walk around after dark, and apparently taking the flirtation of the game drivers with a grain of salt.

As Tamaryn continues to explain nuances of communal meals, bush yoga, and daily laundry service during my three-day stay, all I can think about is when that manly silhouette who inhabits my deepest desire is going to walk up that stairway and make this incredible place even more special. Londolozi isn’t the type of place the heart should be left alone; the generational glamour is truly of another time and exudes a romance I wasn’t expecting, complete with roaring fireplaces and a panorama of trees that frame families of elephants playing along the horizon.

“And as for David, any idea as to when his flight arrives?” I ask.

“Actually, he should be joining you in time for the game drive at four o’clock. I believe he was due to takeoff from Joburg around now, and then it’s about two hours to the lodge.”

“And that’s before dinner, correct?”

“Indeed, after the game drive, you’ll have near half an hour to freshen up before returning here for dinner with us and the other guests. Tonight it will be dinner in the lodge, perhaps on the terrace, depending on the weather.”

Tamaryn seems an unlikely candidate to be running the check-in at her family’s lodge, given her position now as the main point of contact for outside journalists like myself. She seems to rotate between shifts in the bush to assist with lodge management and various marketing duties that seem to suit her well. Her makeup is slight, and her hair is unfussy and windblown that could be the result of a cold ride in on an open jeep. Her clothes are rugged and masculine but of impeccable quality giving her long torso a feminine silhouette despite their bulkiness. She seems relaxed in the lodge setting as if it were an extension of her own home supposedly attached to the existing property.

“Where do you live when in camp?” I ask, interrupting her description of the neighboring camps of Londolozi that are more family-minded than this luxury property.

“Actually, my parents have a house that’s part of the main compound that also includes my grandparents’ home.”

“So there’s a whole hidden life other than what guests see?”

“Yes, you can see the house on the ride in and out of camp, but other than that most guests never really know we are there.”

“And where does the rest of the staff live?”

“There is staff housing at the perimeter of the main reserve, a good ways away from guests to avoid all their wild late-night antics being heard.”

“But close enough to save us if need be in the night?”

“Exactly. Elephant wire surrounds the entire camp because elephants are so destructive, but any of the other predators can walk freely through camp and do. That’s why you must stay inside after dark.”

Once Tamaryn gets away from business talk, we enjoy a great conversation as we make the short walk along an elevated walkway to a row of cabins along a series of private footpaths. She discusses her younger brother’s various bad-boy antics and her mother’s classic cake served for high tea. She picks back up on shoptalk as she approaches my room and turns to details about its recent refurbishment by one of Cape Town’s top designers.

My mind drifts as I notice I don’t need a key or swipe card to get inside my room. A pull of the wooden latch called a baboon-lock opens a solid wood door revealing a large living room similar to the main lodge with fluffy couches, animal print rugs, and wooden tables stacked with glossy books and local artifacts. Timber screens conceal floor-to-ceiling sliding windows that open to a private veranda the overlooks the vast bush land and a small circular pool punctuated with double chrome lanterns and two chaise lounges. Tamaryn continues on a step-by-step tour that doesn’t miss a closet description or explanation regarding the Charlotte Rhys toiletries. Every window is open and she describes every nuance in detail.

After explaining the exact time my trekker will come to the room to gather me for the evening game drive, she leaves me be with little enough time for a clothing change, let alone a proper bath and freshening up. Hunger has the best of me as well. I check out the minibar that’s well stocked with every liquor imaginable, complete with chunky crystal stemware and fresh ice, but only a lone tin bucket of freshly baked chocolate cookies are left for satiating my enormous hunger. Nerves have me about half a tin deep in the cookies before the ranger arrives with a hefty knock on the door, and I realize nothing stands between him and me in my underwear other than a pull of that lever.

David didn’t arrive in time for the evening’s game drive, which meant it would just be Nogo, Duarte, and me roaming the vast terrain. I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe something had delayed David or maybe a change in plans had him staying behind for business. Or maybe, just maybe, he met someone else.

I am the last to arrive back to the lodge for the evening game drive, and we make our way to the Land Rover where Duarte waits with the engine running. I stumble up the side of the truck and choose between three empty rows to settle inside the middle one.

“There’s a hot water bottle under the seat for you as well as blankets to your side should you get cold,” Duarte says as we pull out of camp and back on the now-familiar road we drove in on from the airport.

My mind concentrates on the sky, hoping to see any sign of an arriving airplane at the airfield, but there’s only perfect blue and a sun toward the far corner looking to make its daily exit. I can’t help but wonder what’s become of David. Perhaps he found out about this great lie I’ve been living, or maybe he no longer feels the same as he did in LA or Paris. The driver and trekker are silent, concentrating on the terrain and allowing me to get lost in the landscape of my own mind. The gravel road retreats to a bumpier ride as our truck thumps by groups of impala that jitter with their heads as we approach and then disperse with an almost harmonic trot.

“Do you hear that, Catherine?” Duarte says of the baboons trumpeting overhead in a playful herald. “That is the male baboon calling alarm. There is something they don’t like lurking in the area.”

Duarte really needs no response to his question, just silence that he interprets as agreement, query, or confusion for which he elaborates further in all cases before jolting the truck in the direction of his own intrigue.

Evening turns to night without me noticing, and a biting coldness sets in, which isn’t easily displaced with a now-cold water bottle or fleece blanket. As we drive over the bush, areas of the land are suddenly warm for no reason.

“The subterranean floor of granite that sits just under the dirt stays warm like a hot plate once the sun has set and into most of the night,” Duarte explains. “It is here that many larger animals congregate in colder months and—”

Suddenly Duarte’s explanation stops; the Land Rover erupts in silence before gliding to a stop above the crackling branches below us.

“Listen to that sound … it’s the lioness.”

In the night sky, a cry erupts that ricochets from the far reaches of the horizon like a high-pitched whale released from her soul that aches in its tone before coming to a desperate guttural surge she repeats into the night sky as she comes into view.

“Her call reaches out over the darkness over and over again in hopes the male lion will hear it somewhere in this great vastness and will return to her and her cub.”