Petrified Monkey’s Tail

I remember the moment.

A roaring fire blazed in the grand fireplace at the Samara Manor House as we warmed our hands after a cold game drive, anticipating yet another sumptuous dinner and enjoying the hospitality that was as warm as the regal residence we temporarily called home. Equally comfortable and elegant, there was always something lovely to admire, and the white fireplace mantle with the long, grayish, branch-like art spiraling gracefully across the top was no exception. Reminding me of petrified wood, the art work enhanced the eclectic nature of the room. Oh yes, there was always something beautiful and unusual to appreciate, inside as well as outside, and to wonder about as well.

And I wondered what that stick-like object was.

But Reid knew. “A petrified monkey’s tail,” he told me without hesitation.

With the mountains of the Karoo silhouetted in the background and an infinity pool that sailed on and on, the petrified monkey’s tail perched on the mantle, in addition to the diverse antelope horns and native décor in the home, added to the uniqueness of Samara. I loved it.

And for me, monkeys, regardless of their mischievous and sometimes annoying behavior, are fun to watch. In fact, one monkey made sure we knew who was in charge, dropping evidence outside our door that he had been there first. And then later as we visited the mountain lodge, the remnants of a jubilee feast fit for a monkey queen were evident. Apparently, a monkey had invited herself in and served tea, enjoying, in particular, the many packets of sugar, not an uncommon occurrence at the lodge. And in another tale we were told of one particular monkey who, surprised to find himself trapped in the lodge’s bedroom, took the quickest way out through a plate glass window, apparently unharmed. In a land of antelopes and cheetahs and elephants and giraffes and aardvarks, the grey vervet monkeys with the black faces entertain those who visit their land.

So the petrified monkey’s tail on the fireplace mantle made perfect sense to me.

Only it wasn’t. It wasn’t a petrified monkey’s tail, that is. Nope. But yes, the interesting object on the fireplace mantle was unique, just not petrified. And it wasn’t a tail from a monkey either, even though it now makes a good tale to tell for the distinct object on the mantle was actually the impressive horns from a majestic Greater Kudu. Horns that Reid recognized immediately as belonging to the antelope referred to by many as the “ghost of the bush” because of its ability to blend in with its surroundings. Horns from the invisible-like animal with the white stripes that Ernest Hemingway, obsessed with hunting them, wrote about in The Green Hills of Africa. Spectacular horns that can extend up to 51 inches on average and make three graceful twists while doing so, yet horns that do not impede the animal as he stomps through the bush because he simply lifts up his chin, throw them against his back, and forages on ahead through the dense spekboom and sweet thorn bush.

Horns from a greater kudu, not a tail from a petrified monkey. Gulp.

I remember the moment.

My son and husband shared a hearty laugh over my gullibility, and we’ll all remember the moment, a true Becky Bader moment, ranking up there with the cricket I thought was a wild animal and the carafe I drank out of at the winery and the necklace I wore with the price tag still attached. Like the monkeys, I, too, can provide a lot of comic relief.

And now the Baders have another phrase to add to our invented South African lingo – petrified monkey’s tail – to describe anything so indescribably ridiculous that there are simply no words to do it justice. Whereas caramelized pear is our “ohhhhh wowwww” moment, petrified monkey’s tail is our “ohhhh mannnn” moment. And behind the lingo, the moments become part of the indescribable memories we won’t forget. The breathtaking and the ridiculous.

And by the way, I wasn’t the only one who provided comic relief. On a particularly cold day as the ranger was driving us through the fields to the airstrip, Ian sat on his hot water bottle instead of holding it in his lap and soon discovered his pants were wet right before we boarded the plane to leave. And that tale, too, won’t be forgotten.

Petrified Monkey’s Tail isn’t just for the mama of the family.

For information on Samara’s Vervet Monkey Research, see http://www.samara.co.za/vervet.htm.

Caramelized-Pear French Toast

When I taught elementary school, a supervisor, completing an annual evaluation, fell asleep during the math lesson I was teaching to my first-graders. Later he blamed it on me, saying it was because I told him to observe after lunch, and since he had eaten a big meal, he couldn’t stay awake. I didn’t comment even though he was the one who had picked the class to attend; instead, I watched him joke about it to the other teachers. I knew he was embarrassed, but I felt embarrassed, too, and also responsible. A boring teacher who couldn’t keep her principal awake.

But while he slept, he missed so much excitement -- the gigantic smile on the tiny tot’s face who answered correctly for the first time and the high-pitched squeals from the shy boy who usually didn’t talk. And then the boisterous cheers when the girls won the flash card race and then some of the most encouraging words a teacher can hear --  “That was fun. What’s next?” -- after the math activity was over. Yes, the principal missed all the excitement, waking up only after one of the kids yelled, “Hey, Mrs. Bader. He’s snoring!”

I’ve recently returned from an exciting vacation in South Africa, a vacation I have ranted and raved about for weeks now. A vacation I didn’t want to be over. A vacation where there was so much emotion and anticipation and wonder that I jumped up every morning and couldn’t wait for the day to begin and then fought hard to stay awake at night for as long as I possibly could. A vacation where God most definitely answered my prayer to be overwhelmed with the wonder of His world.

And then, quite jetlagged after 26 hours in the air, I came home, ignored phone calls and mail for as long as I could, and slept for several days before I woke up to my regular life. To my daily routine that can be, at times, a tad boring. To the rigamarole that goes along with responsibilities and a really massive to-do list. To demands.  And to exhaustion that doesn’t come from an exciting game drive in an exotic country.

But I also came home without the high expectations I had in South Africa. I didn’t expect to be as overwhelmed with wonder in Bellville, Texas, where I’ve lived for most of my 57 years, as I was during my South African vacation in the Thousand Hills outside Durban and the private game reserves of Samara and Kwandwe and the wine lands surrounding Cape Town and the grandeur of La Residence. I didn’t realize it, but that’s what I did. Or didn’t. And I forgot a prayer I had confined to South Africa: God, overwhelm me with the wonder of your world. Not just on vacation, but wherever I am. Even in my daily life. Especially in my daily life!   

During our last meal at La Residence in the Franschhoek valley, faced with the reality of leaving all the grandeur behind, I did something quite idiotic: I ordered an egg white omelet for breakfast. Who orders something that ridiculous at a place where the food is as delicious as the view is gorgeous as the house is elegant…? Well, you get the idea. I mean, the cuisine at La Res is unforgettable, but my clothes were snug and I had already consumed two amazing lattes (one was supposed to have been for Ian), so I decided to be “good,” which translates, in this case, as “stupid,” a word I NEVER let my kids at school use! Reid, however, our experienced and traveled son who is not an idiot, ordered the French toast with caramelized pears.

And while I sipped freshly-squeezed orange juice and nibbled on snow-white goat cheese while also drinking the fabulous Ethiopian-blended black coffee (I hadn’t had any coffee in four months so I was overdosing on that treat), it was obvious that I wasn’t being “good” anyway and I kept wishing I had ordered the French toast with caramelized pears.  Obsessing, really. Forget the calories, I wanted the French toast!  And then breakfast was artfully served and it was exceptionally lovely, even the egg white omelet, but Reid’s French toast – oh dear! And watching my son moan appreciatively as he ate, I stared resolutely until he offered me a bite – and that one delicious bite, I might add, cured me of any future food stupidity. It was, in three words, to die for! Well, maybe not to die for, but certainly the last treat you’d want to eat before you left South Africa anyway. Better than the chocolate explosion in Cape Town and Ian’s three chocolate birthday cakes and all things chocolate for that matter, the highest food compliment I can give. And I certainly won’t demean it by comparing it to an egg white omelet even one as delicious as the one I ate that morning!

In a land with its own lingo -- where “turning off the tap” refers to the rain forecast for the day and a “trolley” is a luggage cart at the airport;  where “just now” means anytime between now and infinity and “howzit” means how is it going; and also where “one time” means a really great time -- the Baders have now invented their own South African phrase, caramelized pear, to describe anything so indescribably delicious that there are simply no words to do it justice. Caramelized pear is not just “wow” but “ohhhhhh wowwwww!”  

In South Africa, we experienced many caramelized pearmoments besides the delicious one at La Residence, moments which made me forget my sagging eyelids and Ian’s cracked rib cartilageand Reid’s almost-pneumonia. Over-the-top times where we’d forget all problems and worries and responsibilities, and instead, be simply overwhelmed with God’s world. Awed, really.

The dark, antelope-like waterbuck that looked like he sat down on a freshly-painted white toilet seat, and the majestic golden-maned lion that entertained us by rolling around in a heap of rhino dung, and the lazing cheetah in the bush who calmly looked at us while we somewhat fearfully stared back. And then there were the young, male giraffes banging their long necks against each other as they fought for dominance and the angry, aggressive elephant in musth charging down the road as our guide hurried out of his way. Then there were those other delicious moments like returning from a cold game drive in Samara, only to find a hot bath already drawn with slippers and a robe warmed and ready, and the high-pitched squeal of our guide when he heard that an older cheetah not known to be pregnant had given birth, and all the heart-felt celebrations heard throughout the camp for that birth! And also silly, yet still unforgettable moments like the morning when Ian, after hearing that the “cats” sometimes lounged under the teak decks in Kwandwe, stood on our deck calling, “Here Kitty, Kitty!”  

Oh, yes, there were many, many caramelized pear moments on our trip!

And then it was over.

On the last day in Samara, Reid, fighting a bad chest cold, was obviously not feeling wel, and when the mother in me asked him if he wanted to stay inside while we went out on a game drive, his answer was adamant: “No way. I’m NOT going to miss anything.” With eight years of safaris under his belt, Reid knew a ridiculous question when he heard one.  You don’t sleep when there are so many amazing, once-in-a-lifetime opportunities awaiting you. You don’t stay inside when outside there’s something you’ve never seen before. You don’t refuse to go when there’s a possibility that you might miss something awesome! You just don’t!  

And Reid was right for the last animal we saw that night was the elusive big-eared, long-nosed aardvark, the very animal Reid had wanted to see the entire trip!

Yesterday, I walked outside on my front porch where in the midst of my mess of a garden, birds were chirping and hopping and pecking at the yellow sunflowers I had pulled out of the weeds, delightful birds having as delightful a time as the ones in South Africa. Two weeks ago, I would have asked our guide what those birds were, and then we would have stopped and talked all about them. We’d have learned their call and their mating habits and idiosyncrasies. And I’d have left with a new appreciation for yet another creature in God’s world. And I wouldn’t have missed the moment that I almost missed on my own front porch, which is also part of God’s amazing world and also a place to stand awed and overwhelmed.

My son’s reaction that last day on safari will always remind me of the amazing possiblilities God gives us each day. Overwhelming moments to stand in awe and wonder as He unveils his world. Caramalized-pear French toast opportunities to experience. And they are, most definitely, not confined to South Africa. 

And that first-grader’s question continues to echo through my mind and my heart, words I have since repeated in my morning prayers to God: “That was fun. What’s next?”

Spekboom!

In South Africa, spekboom is booming! This hardy, green, bush-like plant, appreciatively deemed the miracle plant, is spreading throughout the Eastern Cape, thanks to the stubbornness of the resilient plant and the stubbornness of the resilient people determined to revitalize their beautiful land. And while doing so, spekboom might possibly revitalize our world as spekboom, a succulent cactus-like plant that grows in drought-resistant areas and provides shelter and nutrition for animals, also absorbs carbon dioxide from the atmosphere. Google it, and you’ll be impressed at its enormous carbon storage capacity and at its possible capability of impacting our world. Spekboom is most definitely a miracle plant!

Driving through a green-canopied spekboom forest at Samara, our knowledgeable ranger, Shakemore, stopped and encouraged us to sample spekboom, simply for fun and not because it’s also called the bacon tree due to the bark’s appearance when peeled off the tree. Somewhat bitter and slightly sour – almost like a cross between a lemon and spinach -- the small green leaf, an ingredient in some salads, is also being explored in diabetes research and is treated respectfully by women as a tool helpful in stimulating milk when breastfeeding.

Kudu and elephants like spekboom, too, and it also provides shelter different from the ancient shepherd’s tree, another miraculous tree with umbrella-like shade that we saw in Shepherd's TreeSamara. With its trunk rubbed white by the animals, one 800-year-old, stately, yet slightly stooped shepherd’s tree with twisted, gnarled branches so interwoven they reminded me of the tangled necklaces in my jewelry box, the shepherd’s tree is another jewel of a plant in South Africa. Providing comforting shade after a long walk, the tree is surrounded by spekboom and also by superstition, which says that burning a shepherd’s tree will result in only bull calves being born, a curse ending animal life on the farm. Definitely not the kind of burning bush you want to see!

Besides the spekboom and the shepherd’s tree, the sweet thorn -- with its deadly, grey-white thorns, yet sweet gum-like substance -- is also a common tree in South Africa. With thorns so sharp they were once used as sewing needles, this tree is the one we carefully watched for, ducking quickly whenever it scraped the side of our safari vehicle. But giraffes love it, and according to legend, it’s one of the reasons their eye lashes are so long.

The miracle spekboom, the ancient shepherd’s tree, the sharp sweet thorn, and a profusion of orange-red aloe flowers called “winter fire” are all part of the lasting memories we made in South Africa.

And in a tradition easy to embrace, speck boom planting was the last activity after our last safari.  Easily propagated, spekboom branches were cut, shovels were shared, holes were dug, and branches were planted with cheers from Marnus, Anneke, Shakemore, and the rest of the fabulous Samara staff. A symbolic gesture, planting spekboom was one way we could give back to this miraculous land. And it also left us with yet one more emotional goodbye.    

For more information on Samara’s Spekboom Project - http://www.samara.co.za/spekboom.htm

Samara!

Samara is a land that screams to be sung about. A land whose silence is louder than anything I’ve heard. A land filled with the call of the jackal, the swoop of the owl’s wings, the swish of the aardvark’s tale, and the squawk of the baboon. And if you don’t hear them, you think you do. You want to. And you listen even more carefully than you’ve listened to anything in your life. Samara is peaceful and mystical and emotional, too.

In Samara, a day doesn’t go by without tears, tears that flow from your belly up. Tears that can’t be stopped, tears that can’t be explained. Experiencing Samara is experiencing a land of raw emotions with raw emotion.

And it’s a land of respect, too. The land, its people, the animals respect each other. Admire each other. Celebrate each other. And maybe fear each other a little, too. And their mututal respect leads to a harmony I’ve not witnessed before among a land, its people, and the animals whose presence makes it special.

Oh yes, Samara is a land that screams to be sung about. A land that respectfully demands respect. A peaceful existence which shares its peace with those who come to visit. And there is so much to share.

Last night as the sun began to sink down to the horizon leaving a pinkish haze hovering over the mountains, we gingerly hiked down a rocky, somewhat treacherous cliff to a small, hidden cave below, motivated by anticipation of seeing the famous ancient rock art waiting on the cave’s walls. I haven’t hiked like that since I was a young girl climbing with my Uncle Tommy at Palo Dura Canyon 43 years ago, and then last year Ian, who has cracked rib cartilage, broke his arm walking down stairs in the Battleship of Texas. So I prayed a lot on the way down to the cave. “Oh Lord. Please don’t let us break a bone here in the mountains of South Africa where there is no light to be seen, no one around, and no EMS vehicle that could possibly make it this far!” Yes, it was frightening, but once we made it to the cave, the trek was most definitely worth the risk.

In the serene stillness of that tiny cave nestled in the dolomite mountain and blocked by the sweet thorn bush, the only noise was the sound of our pounding chests, pumping with adrenalin and excitement and relief for having survived the hike down the rocky cliff. And we stood, respectfully silent and awed at what was before us. We came to Samara expecting animals, but we’ve experienced so much more.

The first ancient drawing we encountered was a cheetah, a simple child-like, reddish-hue sketch drawn by a bushman 2,000 years ago. A piece of art symbolic of this land, still home to that amazing cat. And then there was more art by the Ngami painted a mere 1,000 years ago. Drawings of man with animals, the giraffe recognizable immediately. Art distinctly different than the bushman’s art. And unique just like the experience of Samara. And, of course, much more than you expect. Reid’s repeated phrase - “Just wait. There’s more!” – wasn’t a hyperbole. There’s always more in this magical, harmonious place.

Yes. Samara is a land that screams to be sung about.

And it’s a land where the reserve ranger is a teacher as well as a guide. And when the ranger says, “Follow me,” you know to be careful for you might be the food for a waiting predator. But when he says, “You go first,” then you learn there is food waiting for you! And what an experience both of them are. First, climbing out of the Toyota land cruiser and gingerly meandering down a darkened, shaded path in the midst of “monkey land” where the greenish foliage drapes over the road and the majestic buffalo are hidden further down in the bush, I wasn’t sure what to expect. But Shakemore, our trusted guide, said to go first, and soon I found out that awaiting us was a culinary surprise: table cloths and silverware and plates and a delicious, kingly feast including anything we wanted to drink. Golden-crusted fish and lamb sticks and chicken sandwiches on rolls and flakey-pastry quiche and bean salad and green salad with cucumbers and tomatoes and the most incredible multi-layered chocolate cake oozing with chocolate icing from Ian’s birthday celebration the night before. And a fire to warm our hands after washing them in a porcelain basin filled with warm water.

What we’ve learned is that the adventure of the animals and the adventure of the land are only part of the Samara experience. The respectful treatment we were given was equally amazing and a part of our adventure as well. And when the ranger says, “You go first. I have a surprise for you,” we learned he wasn’t kidding!

And we also learned that when the guide says, “Follow me,” there’s also going to be a surprise, too. Climbing out of that same land cruiser and walking single-file, Reid grabbed my phone and silenced it, which was enough to remind me we were walking in a land of wild animals. And then, circling a series of sweet thorn trees loved by the giraffe and padding softly through a path of red grass blowing like grain, our knowledgeable guide stopped and pointed. “See that right there. Under the tree?” But I only saw a dark shadow. So he motioned me closer, “Right there.” And this time I saw, less than ten feet away and nestled comfortably under the shade of a tree, a cheetah who seemed totally oblivious to our presence, which I knew was far from the truth. That cheetah knew we were there. And then there was that moment of awe tinged with fear for when I looked at Ian, his face was stricken with terror! Respect and fear go hand-in-hand in this surprising bush land filled constantly with new surprises. Every single moment of every single day.

Samara is a land that screams to be sung about. A lyrical land that awakens dreams in me, dreams not forgotten but long buried. Dreams like hope that still rises from the ashes, dreams that give birth to more possibilities. Dreams of more. Always more.

God must look down on Samara and smile and think, “Oh yes, it is very good.”

I didn’t want to leave Samara today. More tears came. But I will sing about it in my own way for its music mistily touched my soul. Oh yes, I’ll sing about it in my own way by respectfully writing about it. More. Tomorrow.

For Samara is a land that needs to be sung about.