At six a.m. the next morning a hint of light softened the eastern horizon. The first tentative birdcalls drifted over the savanna. Gradually the warbles and whistles joined with increasing intensity as though the sun rose by volume alone. Awakened by the shrill chorus we dressed quickly, checking our shoes for scorpions before putting them on and sleepily winding our way among the lantana and bougainvillea lining the path to the main lodge. It was time to grab a quick cup of coffee before our first game drive. We shivered in the cool morning air, hands wrapped around hot mugs, and gazed out across the undulating beauty of Amboseli. Golden light limned the short grasses and gnarled acacias with painterly precision. Slowly the rest of our group assembled on the patio as we watched the African morning unfold. We marveled at the eerie orderliness of the wildebeest herds moving single file from their sleeping grounds to their grazing fields, dark silhouettes seen through the pale dust of their passage swirling around them. Fat, glossy zebras shyly crowded around the waterhole. Rosy sunlight tinged the snow-crowned peak of Kilimanjaro behind us while we finished our drinks in silent, sleepy reverence. Vervet monkeys snatched sugar packets from our table and ate them, paper and all.
Fortified by the view as much as by the coffee, everyone climbed into their assigned vehicles and the six vans headed out into Amboseli, again watched by a small group of Masai at the gate. Leonard quickly split off from the group and drove along a small, ambling path. I realized I had no real sense of direction out here and even knowing we could only be a mile or two from the lodge I couldn't pick it out from among the other clumps of trees. Mt. Kilimanjaro was behind us, gradually emerging from the night mists obscuring its slopes. All around us the herds of zebra and gazelle flicked their tails rapidly as they grazed. A constant lowing from the wildebeest filled the clear morning air. Every once in a while Leonard would turn of the engine and glide to a stop. "Jackal," he would say softly and we would search diligently on the horizon for a small puff of dust that would give away the jackal's position. "Hyaena," he might advise and point out the slope-shouldered predator steadily making its way across a dry wadi. "Bustard," he would whisper as we pulled alongside a bird in the grass, "That is with a U, not an A," and he would laugh silently at his own joke.
I twisted my head from side to side looking for game, camera in hand, as we bumped along the track. I was looking for elephants but none were to be found as the morning progressed. Leonard saw how dejected I was even as I photographed every animal we came across. Checking his watch to see how soon we had to turn back to the lodge, he came to a decision. "We are going to find elephants now," he announced firmly, "before breakfast. We must hurry without stopping, okay?" Everyone agreed and he headed east across the park at a good rate.
After 10 minutes of tracing our way along an old track we all saw the herd at the same time. They were working their way along a narrow path, seven or eight full grown female elephants and a dozen younger ones, some obviously only a couple of months old. The older sisters and cousins kept the little ones in order as the elder ones marched along snatching up trunkfuls of grass and munching as they went. Several other vehicles were pursuing them on one of the main park roads but from that angle the sun was behind the elephants. Leonard quickly roared off a barely discernable set of tracks and after a number of twists and turns positioned our van at the intersection of the elephants' path and ours.
It was one of the most beautiful sights I've ever been privileged to see. The dusty grey giants were swinging their trunks as they moved gracefully through the green and gold grasses, attended by slender, vividly white egrets darting through their legs and hopping a ride on the wrinkled backs as they searched for ticks and mites on their hosts; behind them the majestic slopes of Kilimanjaro rose high into the blue sky, crowned with snow. It was the whole reason I had come to Kenya. My eyes filled with tears that I had to blink back as I looked through the lens of my camera, trying to capture the sense of spiritual beauty and magnificence. Eventually, I put the camera down and just watched, entranced, knowing this would ever after be what Africa meant to me.