Lake Navasha

Smooth banana orange trees reaching strong from the ground, splitting and reaching for the sky, and flattening out on top to gather rain and sun. The quintessential African tree greets us as we wind our way down the dirt road.

A young boy with a ninja turtle T-shirt on and a small stick in hand herds the cows, branded across their faces. They are bunched across the road. Lackadaisically, slumbering out of the way, listening to the boy, but unconcerned by our vehicle.

We enter the boat and are transported into a magic land.

Pods of hippos standing in the water, brown backed with pink faces, eyes, chins, cheeks, pink like Caucasian skin. Eyes peeking out of the water, sinking below the surface, holding their breath for up to six minutes. And rising again in slow motion. The sound is distinct, surreal, and somehow frightening: snort, blow, splash, grunt. All eyes on us.

Fishing Eagles hanging out in the trees, white through the chest, keen eyes never rest.

White storks catching sunlight on their wings, shine like iridescent jewels of the sun. Flying low to the water, wings flap and glide. Flapping, slapping water sounds. Slow/low take offs and landings. Feet smacking the water, wings giving lift, a cormorant type bird rises.

Zebras and warthogs dot the spaces between the shore and the plains.

Fishing lines tied up with bits of scrap Styrofoam. The boat slows and lifts the engine out of the water as we cross over the lines.

Nests dot the dead, water logged trees that stand eerily against the sky; there are at least sixty nests in each tree above. Trees filled with Fishing Eagles and white chested “cormorants” high on the branches, regal and aware. We are surrounded by birds in trees on the water, in the air, too many in number and variety to count. Bird poop ricochets onto the covered boat; I am saved this time.

Small white birds swoop together in synchronicity, in front of the boat and around, perfect harmony. Clumping onto small branches protruding from the water.

My heart is full, anticipating only what is here in front of me. Awe.

Flamingoes on the shore. Only five pale pink beauties lifting their legs high as they traverse the sand.

There is a stillness here, a natural order and beauty. Only a few squeaks and quibbles called. Wings outstretched to dry. Herons and cranes of multiple varieties join the long list of long legged and long necked birds I see. I am a welcomed visitor.

My heart is racing, but it is not. I breathe slowly and hold it in. I have to remind myself that I am in Africa. Africa. I am not at a park, or in a zoo, this is the Motherland.