Out of Africa
Previous Chapter 'A Fruitless Search' here.
Well, the moment had finally arrived. It was time to tear ourselves away from this unique, enormous, beautiful but troubled continent.
Saying that, try pointing out a continent that isn't troubled.
We rose very early (to everyone's surprise, including mine) to make a final attempt at some sightings and to give our best wishes to as many animals as we could. Except the crocs of course.
We had meticulously packed our precious bags and we were ready to leave.
Ah, not quite. Some quirk of human physiology kept my significant other a prisoner in the 'choo' (w.c.) for a while, allowing the sun to creep up on us and to get our first and only glimpse of the camp in anything close to daylight.
I watched the sunrise from the local pool. Forget all the dire water shortages, a swimming pool is definitely a priority for us safari types.
Not.
I mean, seriously, who goes to all the trouble and all the cost to get to the middle of absolutely everywhere and nowhere baby, to a unique environment full of incredible wildlife... to have a swim? Unless you're an old croc I suppose. Ok, good point, hold the snide comments.
When finally Annick had been relieved, we were ready to set off on our farewell tour of the Northern Serengeti, wending our way to our rendezvous at the airstrip.
The farewells started with the staff, all local and all utterly brilliant. Our guide Ian was, of course, to take us to the airstrip. Let's hope he didn't lose any bags this time.
The sky was intent on putting on a farewell show for us on our final morning.
We made our way through a rocky area in the hope of seeing a final leopard. What? No leopard? Hmmm, not a good start to our end. Instead we saw one of their favourite aperitifs. A klipspringer.
But no leopards.
The rocks themselves however were quite artistic, if best avoided in a high wind.
The hot-air balloons were at it again, searching the skies for wild-life and wild-dollars. This, too, is best avoided in high winds. Or if you want to keep any of your hard-earned savings.
We did meet some of our old friends and acquaintances. We wished farewell and good luck to this year's Mr Ugly Africa contestant.
And the Mara? Were we to see yet another stupendous mind-boggling crossing?
Not this time.
The wildebeest had merely come to the river for a drink, to admire the hippos and to wish us God's speed. Then they went happily off in the wrong direction.
You gotta love 'em.
Instead a little bee-eater kept us amused by making it as difficult as possible to capture a decent shot.
Woah! Hang on a minute! They're back!
Nope. They've gone again.
Some vultures dropped by to give their regards and wave farewell banners.
This vulture was now to set off on its yearly trip to meet us in the pyrenees. My suspicion is it will get there before us and with all its baggage intact.
We stopped to bid our farewells to a memory of elephants.
These guys had a strange ghostly appearance.
They were a very light grey due to a fine coating of all the cinders that their grazing had been turned into. Their guts were presumably turning black.
As they wandered past our jeep this younger member took time to have a good sniff.
He wasn't impressed.
This youngster stopped to give us a quick farewell cabaret.
Spot the giraffe.
Gotcha!
And then we saw, yes folks, another leopard!
This is probably the best sighting of a leopard in all the time we were there.
We got right underneath his tree. Right underneath him. Hopefully he did not have our same need for a pee...
A very proud beast.
A very sleepy beast.
A very comfortable beast.
This tree was just the right shape for him.
The perfect lounger.
Our final farewells included another cat-haven tree.
These two speed-kings were not in performance mode.
We finally arrived at the gates of the airstrip, to be welcomed by this baboon and...
...a giraffe who were both waiting at the entrance. You don't get that kind of service in Gatwick.
We said our final emotional 'Kwa Heri's to Ian. He had proven himself once more to be the world's best guide, as these twenty-four chapters have born witness. Sadly he did receive two demerits for not finding us those elusive caracal and rhino. I guess this means we are going to have to force ourselves to go back next year...
We then squeezed inside the giant vibrator, all bags intact despite Ian's best efforts at bush massage and took our leave, heading for Kilimanjaro.
In Kilimanjaro there were the usual horrendous queues. Queues for handing over our precious cargo where I bid a farewell to our two hold bags. Queues for unpacking all our carefully packed hand luggage for intimate checking, repacking, then unpacking again. Queues for paperwork. Queues for passport control.
Brain numbing.
After all that, batteries needed recharging....
We then finally entered a giant viral incubator for our long haul flight heading for Amsterdam.
I was content in the knowledge that, due to my bag being tagged, all luggage was safe and sound in the hold. This was a relief after the chaos of Kilimanjaro airport. We would arrive eight sleepless hours later for a transfer in the heart of civilisation.
Wrong. It was Schiphol airport. One of the busiest airports in the world and undoubtedly much more chaotic than Kilimanjaro.
Schiphol brings a whole new meaning to the word 'queues'.
Luckily our flight had been delayed by six hours. Just enough time to get through. My numbed brain was threatening to flatline. Thankfully there were plenty of local caffeine drip lines available.
So much for civilisation.
Upon arrival in Toulouse we made our sluggish way to baggage collection. I checked the tag, my precious backpack was quite clearly still in Amsterdam. Another queue, this time to attempt communication with a computer screen to suggest that the truck load of luggage in Amsterdam was in the wrong place.
Grrr.
My backpack did thankfully arrive at home, a day later than us, totally intact.
I gave it another huge hug.
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