African Safari Quotes

You can no longer see or identify yourself solely as a member of a tribe, but as a citizen of a nation of one people working toward a common purpose.

Most people write me off when they see me. They do not know my story. They say I am just an African. They judge me before they get to know me. What they do not know is The pride I have in the blood that runs through my veins; The pride I have in my rich culture and the history of my people; The pride I have in my strong family ties and the deep connection to my community; The pride I have in the African music, African art, and African dance; The pride I have in my name and the meaning behind it. Just as my name has meaning, I too will live my life with meaning. So you think I am nothing? Don’t worry about what I am now, For what I will be, I am gradually becoming. I will raise my head high wherever I go Because of my African pride, And nobody will take that away from me.

There comes a moment in your life when you realize that no matter how hard you try, you're never going to be fluent in Spanish. Or go on that African safari you've read about since you were a kid. Or be as excited as you used to be about catching fireflies. I keep trying to find my answer to life - and it gets more elusive the older I get.

There's always a way if you're not in a hurry.

That was my Malawian epiphany. Only Africans were capable of making a difference in Africa. All the others, donors and volunteers and bankers, however idealistic, were simply agents of subversion.

I have a hatred of the taming of animals, especially large ones that are so contented in the wild. I abominate circus acts that involve big befooled beasts--cowed tigers or helplessly roaring lions pawing the air and teetering on small stools. I deplore zoos and anything to do with animal confinement or restraint.

How much does an elephant weigh?

Someone who seems doddery is perhaps not doddery at all but only an older person absorbed in squinting concentration, as though on an ultimate trip, memorizing a scene, grateful for being alive to see it.

I have heard African lions roar and the hacksaw cough of leopards just outside my safari tent, but neither of these is as haunting, as unsettling, as the savage symphony of gray wolves on a cold, still, northern night.

I hate this little town. It's so small, too small. Everything about it is small. The people here have small ideas, small dreams; they all want to marry each other and live here forever.' 'What do you want to do?' I asked. 'I want to leave as soon as I can. I think I was born with a suitcase.' ... 'Where do you want to go?' I asked. 'Everywhere. I want to walk on the Great Wall of China, I want to walk to the top of the pyramids in Egypt, I want to swim in every ocean, I want to climb Mount Everest, I want to go on an African safari, I want to ride a dog sled in Antarctica. I want all of it; every single piece of everything.

What I lack in skills and ability. I more than make up for in confidence!

Time is a factor in travel, one of the most crucial.

To travel unconnected, away from anyone's gaze or reach, is a bliss.

Maputo was much praised as a desirable destination, but it was a dreary, beat-up city of desperate people who had cowered there while war raged in the provinces for twenty-five years, destroying bridges, roads, and railways. Banks and donors and charities claimed to have had successes in Mozambique. I suspected they invented these successes to justify their existence; I saw no positive results of charitable efforts. But whenever I expressed skepticism about the economy, the unemployment, the potholes, or the petty thievery, people in Maputo said, as Africans elsewhere did, 'It was much worse before.' In many places, I knew, it was much better before. It was hard to imagine how much worse a place had to be for a broken-down city like Maputo to seem like an improvement.

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Suffering has no value, but you have to suffer in order to know that. I never found it easy to travel, yet the difficulty in it made it satisfying because it seemed in that way to resemble the act of writing - groping around in the dark, wandering into the unknown, coming to understand the condition of strangeness.

Reading about a far-off place can be a satisfaction in itself, and you might be thankful you’re reading about the bad trip without the dust in your nose and the sun burning your head, not having to endure the unrewarding nuisance and delay of the road. But reading can also be a powerful stimulus to travel. That was the case for me from the beginning. Reading and restlessness-dissatisfaction at home, a sourness of being indoors, and a notion that the real world was elsewhere- made me a traveller. If the internet were everything it is cracked up to be, we would all stay at home and be brilliantly witty and insightful. Yet with so much contradictory information available, there is more reason to travel than ever before: to look closer, to dig deeper, to sort the authentic from the fake; to verify, to smell, to touch, to hear, and sometimes – importantly – to suffer the effects of this curiosity.

I remember, for example, the time at prep school when I was chosen for the under nines’ rugby team. Well, to be more accurate, I was chosen to be linesman, as I wasn’t good enough for the actual team. Anyway, it was a cold, miserable winter’s day, and there were no spectators out watching, which was uncommon. (Normally, at least a few boys or teachers would come out to watch the school matches.) But on this cold, blustery day the touchlines were deserted, except for one lone figure. It was my dad, standing in the rain, watching me, his son, perform my linesman duties. I felt so happy to see him, but also felt guilty. I mean, I hadn’t even made the team and here he was to watch me run up and down waving a silly flag. Yet it meant the world to me. When the halftime whistle blew it was my big moment. On I ran to the pitch, the plate of oranges in my hands, with Dad applauding from the touchline. Lives are made in such moments. Likewise, I remember Dad playing in the fathers-and-sons cricket match. All the other fathers were taking it very seriously, and then there was Dad in an old African safari hat, coming in to bat and tripping over his wicked--out for a duck. I loved that fun side of Dad, and everyone else seemed to love him for it as well. To be a part of that always made me smile.

Arnold," she said one day after school, "I hate this little town. It's so small, too small. Everything about it is small. The people here have small ideas. Small dreams. They all want to marry each other and live here forever." "What do you want to do?" I asked. "I want to leave as soon as I can. I think I was born with a suitcase." Yeah, she talked like that. All big and goofy and dramatic. I wanted to make fun of her, but she was so earnest. "Where do you want to go?" I asked. "Everywhere. I want to walk on the Great Wall of China. I want to walk to the top of pyramids in Egypt. I want to swim in every ocean. I want to climb Mount Everest. I want to go on an African safari. I want to ride a dogsled in Antarctica. I want all of it. Every single piece of everything." Her eyes got this strange faraway look, like she'd been hypnotized. I laughed. "Don't laugh at me," she said. "I'm not laughing at you," I said. "I'm laughing at your eyes." "That's the whole problem," she said. "Nobody takes me seriously." "Well, come on, it's kind of hard to take you seriously when you're talking about the Great Wall of China and Egypt and stuff. Those are just big goofy dreams. They're not real." "They're real to me," she said. "Why don't you quit talking in dreams and tell me what you really want to do with your life," I said. "Make it simple." "I want to go to Stanford and study architecture." "Wow, that's cool," I said. "But why architecture?" "Because I want to build something beautiful. Because I want to be remembered." And I couldn't make fun of her for that dream. It was my dream, too. And Indian boys weren't supposed to dream like that. And white girls from small towns weren't supposed to dream big, either. We were supposed to be happy with our limitations. But there was no way Penelope and I were going to sit still. Nope, we both wanted to fly:

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Little had changed after independence. Jomo Kenyatta’s face hung in a framed portrait in every shop where Queen Elizabeth’s had been. Some schools were built, some streets renamed. But educated people are a liability in a dictatorship: all the schools were underfunded, few of them succeeded. A great deal of foreign money was given to the government and most of it ended up in the pockets of politicians, some of whom were assassinated. It is almost impossible to exaggerate the fatness of corrupt African politicians.

Many travelers are essentially fantasists. Tourists are timid fantasists, the others - risk takers - are bold fantasists.

I walked for an hour and then returned by a different route to wait out the weekend. It was one of those empty interludes in travel, an airless unrewarding delay, when nothing occurs except a rising sense of loneliness and uncertainty, a darkening of prospects, the condition of being an outsider with all of a stranger's suspicions.

Many travelers are essentially fantasists. Tourists are timid fantasists, the others - risk takers - are bold fantasists. The tourists at Etosha conjure up a fantastic Africa after their nightly dinner by walking to the fence at the hotel-managed waterhole to stare at the rhinos and lions and eland coming to drink: a glimpse of wild nature with overhead floodlights. They have been bused to the hotel to see it, and it is very beautiful, but it is no effort....My only boast in travel is my effort...

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Many safari guests find it difficult to get going in the morning, needing to drink a slow coffee and struggling with their equipment in unaccustomed darkness. It’s maddening when the lions are calling, and the guests are showing no urgency. You can’t press “pause” at a live show.

PROLOGUE CHAPTER 1 AN UNEXPECTED MOVE CHAPTER 2 WELCOME TO APATU CHAPTER 3 SETTLING IN CHAPTER 4 PRETTY, TICKS AND ANGELINA CHAPTER 5 VISITORS AND A SAFARI CHAPTER 6 GOING

(courtesy Travel Africa magazine) sums up the feeling rather well –: “Surely everyone who has had the honour of setting foot on African soil understands how difficult it is to answer the question: “Why Africa?” I’ve often found it impossible to do Africa justice in words. In the past I’ve felt that my answers never conveyed the joy I feel when I hear the word Africa, see a glimpse of her on television, or hear African people talking in the street. My answers are most often unsatisfying and frequently leave my audience unconvinced. But of late I’ve found a much simpler way to explain it. Africa is a feeling. Africa is an emotion. Of course it is much more detailed than that, but also just as simple. Africa is the awe-inspiring landscapes, the beauty in the people, the wild creatures that inhabit the land and the seas, and it’s the speed in which the sun leaves in the evening and comes again in the morning. The feeling of Africa waking up is indescribable, dramatic and incomparable. Africa seems to breathe life, into itself and into all things. And death. And the cycles in between. Africa is the longed-for lover, the oft-missed friend, and the trusted elder. Africa is all of these things but maybe none of them. Africa affects us in a deep, personal, individual way. It comes to us in an instant, inhabits our being, and never leaves. I long for Africa. I miss it every day. It embodies all that I believe about life, space and freedom, even though such things are often scarce commodities on the ground. Africa is a memory, a constant presence and is all future possibilities. Africa is old and wise, new and dynamic, and I will be there again.” Enough said...

It takes a certain specialist’s dedication to travel in squalid cities and fetid slums, among the utterly dependant poor, who have lost nearly all of their traditions, and most of their habitat. You need first of all the skill and the temperament of a proctologist. Such a person, deft in rectal exams, is as essential to medicine as any other specialist, yet it is only the resolute few who opt to examine the condition of the human body by staring solemnly – fitted out like spelunkers, with scopes and tubes and gloves – up its fundament and trawling through its intestines, making the grand colonic tour. Some travel has its parallels, and some travellers might fit the description as rectal specialists of topography, joylessly wandering the guts and entrails of the earth and reporting on their decrepitude. I am not one of them.

A sense of hopelessness had weighed me down like a fever since I’d stepped across the border weeks before. And with this fever came a vision that had sharpened, coming into greater focus, as if inviting me to look closer. My first reaction was a laugh of disgust at the ugliness around me, like the reek of a latrine that makes you howl or at the sight of a dirty bucket of chicken pieces covered with flies. After the moment of helpless hilarity passed, what remained was the vow that I never wanted to see another place like this.

SAFARI tents remain zipped, hotel pools are empty, game guides idle among lions and elephants. Tour operators across Africa are reporting the biggest drop in business in living memory. A specialist travel agency, SafariBookings.com, says a survey of 500 operators in September showed a fall in bookings of between 20% and 70%. Since then the trend has accelerated, especially in Botswana, Kenya, South Africa and Tanzania. Several American and European agents have stopped offering African tours for the time being. The reason is the outbreak of the Ebola virus in west Africa, which has killed more than 5,000 people. The epidemic is taking place far from the big safari destinations in eastern and southern Africa—as far or farther than the

I believe that the mind can be permanently profaned by the habit of attending to trivial things,” Thoreau wrote in his essay “Life Without Principle,” “so that all our thoughts shall be tinged with triviality.

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Write the story of a contemporary cured of his heartbreaks solely by long contemplation of a landscape.

A man and a gun and a star and a beast are still ponderable in a world of imponderables. The essence of the simple ponderable is man’s potential ability to slay a lion. It is an opportunity that comes to few, but the urge is always present. Never forget that man is not a dehydrated nellie under his silly striped pants. He is a direct descendant of the hairy fellow who tore his meat raw from the pulsing flanks of just-slain beasts and who wiped his greasy fingers on his thighs if he bothered to wipe them at all. I wiped my greasy fingers on my thigh for practice. This is the only deeply rooted reason I can produce for the almost universal

It was like seeing elephants in a zoo versus viewing them on safari in the African bush.

When man made fire, he lifted himself up, over, and above the animals. Fire is actually too good for people. Let us sit in front of one of these tiny, gleaming blazes and drink a little gin.

As the Senate’s Church Committee would note: “In 1967 alone, the CIA published or subsidized over 200 books, ranging from books on African safaris . . . to a competitor to Mao’s little red book, which was entitled Quotations from Chairman Liu.” One such book, produced by the Domestic Operations division—the one that was monitoring Oswald—told the story of “a young student from a developing country who had studied in a communist country.” According to the CIA, that book “had a high impact in the United States.

Someone you know has just seen a great movie. Someone else had an idle thought. There’s been a suicide bombing in South Asia. Stocks soared today. Pop star has a painful secret. Someone has a new opinion. Someone is in a taxi. Please support this worthy cause. He needs that report from you—where is it? Someone wants you to join the discussion. A manhunt is on for the killers. Try this in bed. Someone’s enjoying sorbet, mmmm. Your account is now overdue. Easy chicken pot pie. Here’s a brilliant analysis. Latest vids from our African safari! Someone responded to your comment. Time’s running out, apply now. This is my new hair. Just heard an awesome joke. Someone is working hard on his big project. They had their baby! Click here for the latest vote count…

What had I learned? That proctology pretty much describes the experience of traveling from one African city to another, especially the horror cities of urbanized West Africa.

Why would I wish to travel through blight and disorder only to report on the same ugliness and misery? The blight is not peculiar to Africa. The squalid slum in Luanda is not only identical to the squalid slum in Cape Town and Jo’burg and Nairobi; they all greatly resemble, in their desperation, their counterparts in the rest of the world. A squatter camp in California is in every detail a duplication of a squatter camp in Africa, and worthy of

We have bestowed on Africa just enough of the disposable junk of the modern world to create in African cities a junkyard replica of the West, a mirror image of our own failures—but no better than that. Writing about it, choosing the urban landscape and urban misery as a subject, is something for an obituarist. Such a vision, or a visit, represents everything in travel I have always wished to escape.

Unlike animals, the dramas of whose lives play out on African safaris, on wildlife TV channels, and in children’s books, plants may seem uninteresting, sedate, peaceful, and “inactive.” Nothing could be further from the truth. Look closely, and you will notice that the life of a plant, in many ways, is more exciting and action-packed than that of almost any animal. Paradoxically, this is because plants can’t move. If they are malnourished, they can’t move to a different location to feed; when attacked by herbivores, they don’t have feet to run or claws to fight back; when infected by pathogens, they can’t be offered treatment and cuddles like we humans can.

Fiction gives life to places in expressive ways that no history book can begin to suggest. Characters in novels admit us to intimacies—not true of scholarly chronicles, no matter how detailed. We know the people in novels better than we know our friends.

PACKING CHECKLIST Light, khaki, or neutral-color clothes are universally worn on safari and were first used in Africa as camouflage by the South African Boers, and then by the British Army that fought them during the South African War. Light colors also help to deflect the harsh sun and are less likely than dark colors to attract mosquitoes. Don’t wear camouflage gear. Do wear layers of clothing that you can strip off as the sun gets hotter and put back on as the sun goes down. Smartphone or tablet to check emails, send texts, and store photos (also handy as an alarm clock and flashlight), plus an adapter. If electricity will be limited, you may wish to bring a portable charger. Three cotton T-shirts Two long-sleeve cotton shirts preferably with collars Two pairs of shorts or two skirts in summer Two pairs of long pants (three pairs in winter)—trousers that zip off at the knees are worth considering Optional: sweatshirt and sweatpants, which can double as sleepwear One smart-casual dinner outfit Underwear and socks Walking shoes or sneakers Sandals/flip-flops Bathing suit and sarong to use as a cover-up Warm padded jacket and sweater/fleece in winter Windbreaker or rain poncho Camera equipment, extra batteries or charger, and memory cards; a photographer’s vest and cargo pants are great for storage Eyeglasses and/or contact lenses, plus extras Binoculars Small flashlight Personal toiletries Malaria tablets and prescription medication Sunscreen and lip balm with SPF 30 or higher Basic medication like antihistamine cream, eye drops, headache tablets, indigestion remedies, etc. Insect repellent that is at least 20% DEET and is sweat-resistant Tissues and/or premoistened wipes/hand sanitizer Warm hat, scarf, and gloves in winter Sun hat and sunglasses (Polaroid and UV-protected ones) Documents and money (cash, credit cards, etc.). A notebook/journal and pens Travel and field guide books A couple of large white plastic garbage bags Ziplock bags to keep documents dry and protect electronics from dust

Tijdens een van mijn avondwandelingen belandde ik bij toeval in de Rua de Almeida Garrett (een zijstraat van Avenida Ho Chi Minh). Die was genoemd naar João Baptista da Silva Leitão de Almeida Garrett, een negentiende-eeuwse Portugese schrijver en politicus, die in de Verenigde Staten weinig gekend was, en in Angola nog minder. Ik kende hem alleen van een motto in een roman van José Saramago, een uitspraak die reuze toepasselijk was in Luanda: 'Ik vraag de economen en de moralisten of ze ooit wel eens hebben berekend hoeveel individuen veroordeeld moeten worden tot lijden, zwaar werk, demoralisatie, een ellendige jeugd, volstrekte onwetendheid, overweldigende rampspoed en de opperste armoede om één rijke man voort te brengen?

Ik dacht: dit is het gelach in de schaduw van de galg, zo klinken mensen die weten dat ze ten dode zijn opgeschreven, zo ziet een stad eruit die naar de verdommenis gaat. Diezelfde hysterie tref je aan in de beschrijving die Thucydides geeft wanneer de pest uitbreekt in Athene: 'Overweldigd door de hevigheid van de rampspoed, en niet wetend wat hen te doen stond, werden de mannen onverschillig [...] en de grote losbandigheid begon.' Net als de inwoners van Athene deden de Angolezen uit de musseque alsof het einde der tijden was aangebroken: een schreeuwerige, chaotische, bandeloze samenleving die op de rand van uitsterven verkeerde. Geen wanhopige mensen, maar mensen die dansten, die de kiduru en de kizomba deden, zoals Kalunga me uitlegde toen de meisjes in de sloppenwijk in het rond stonden te draaien en soms wat danspasjes invoegden onder het lopen. Het wemelde van de prostituees in de stad, veelal vluchtelingen uit Congo, die mannen oppikten in de Pub Royal en de Zanzibar. De meeste mensen giechelden als gekken omdat ze beseften dat hun dagen geteld waren. Zo klonk dat Angolese gelach mij in de oren: als geraaskal dat getuigde van groot lijden, als versterkt doodsgereutel. Net als de inwoners van Athene hing hen rampspoed of de dood boven het hoofd en 'besloten ze te genieten van een klein deel van hun leven'. Kalunga stapte op zijn motorfiets, maar startte hem niet. Hij zat uit te kijken over de stad en zei: 'Zo zal de wereld eruitzien wanneer het einde der tijden is aangebroken.

African became famous outside Africa. Evolution of the rest black people still under the evaluation process!

The murderous, self-elected, megalomaniacal head of state with the morals of a fruit fly, with his decades in power, along with his vain, flitting shopaholic wife, his hangers-on, and his goon squad, is an obscene feature of African life that is not likely to disappear.

saw that a lack of money was not the problem in this country—but it seldom is in the hellholes of the world.

The paradox was more likely that an excess of money was the problem—or one of them; that, and a government run by thieves. But I was just learning, and I thought, as one does in such circumstances: Maybe things will improve farther up the road.

but rather a solemn sense that since only Africans could define their problems, only Africans could fix them.

The shanties of indigent newcomers to the place were scattered on one side of the crossroads, and on the other side, beyond the shops, were two stinking shebeens where drunken men squatted on the dirt floor, drooling over their home-brewed beer, while a haggard woman ladled more of it into tin cans from a plastic barrel. Outside under a tree, a man in rags, either drunk or exhausted, lay in a posture of crucifixion. Nearby were seven stalls made of rough planks. Two sold used clothes, and one sold new clothes. One offered vegetables, another milky tea and stale bread rolls for the schoolchildren. In a butcher’s shack the stallholder hacked with a machete at the black, flyblown leg of a goat. The last and most salubrious stall, labeled Real Hair, sold wigs and foot-long hair extensions. Near the shops was a shade tree under which a dozen women and about ten children sat in a friendly chatting group, some of them pounding ostrich shells into small discs, while others, using homemade tools, drilled holes in the middle, and still others threaded the punctured discs into bracelets and necklaces to sell to tourists.

How nice it would be, I thought, if someone reading the narrative of my African trip felt the same, that it was the next best thing to being there

I got to thinking that maybe this was what God had in mind when He invented religion, instead of all the don’t and must-nots and sins and confessions of sins. I got to thinking about all the big churches I had been in, including those in Rome, and how none of them could possibly compare with this place, with its brilliant birds and its soothing sounds of intense life all around and the feeling of ineffable peace and goodwill so that not even man would be capable of behaving very badly in such a place. I thought that this was maybe the kind of place the Lord would come to sit in and get His strength back after a hard day’s work trying to straighten out mankind. Certainly He wouldn’t go inside a church. If the Lord was tired, He would be uneasy inside a church.

The sight of bribery on the back road of any country is a clear indication that the whole place is corrupt and the regime a thieving tyranny, as Angola has been for the thirty-five years of its independence—and likely much longer, since Portuguese colonial rule was also an extortion racket.

The earth is becoming intensely citified. “The megacity will be at the heart of twenty-first-century geography,” Robert D. Kaplan writes in The Revenge of Geography.

had a brush with death on an African safari.

The murderous, self-elected, megalomaniacal head of state with the morals of a fruit fly is an obscene feature of African life that is not likely to disappear.

On November 2, 1492, in Cuba, Christopher Columbus saw an Arawak man puffing on rolled tobacco leaves, a European’s first glimpse of smoking.

I argued myself into thinking that physical experience is the only true reality. I didn't want to be told about this, nor did I wish to read about this at second hand. I didn't want to look at pictures or study about it on a small computer screen. I didn't want to be lectured about it. I wanted to be traveling in the middle of it, and for it to be washing over me, as it was today, in the emphatic weather, very hot, the glistening shades of light and heat that gave it a visible lifelessness - now very bright, and all the vitality burned away.

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