Oops

Considering how many times the jinx has followed me, there is absolutely no excuse for what I did yesterday.  Maripet, our scout, and I were going to run over to the ranger post in the landcruiser work truck to pump some water.  When he had prepared the car and came to meet me at the office, I stood up, glanced at my camera, decided against it and headed out the door.

One hour later my phone was ringing, but the reception was not good and all I could hear as we stood at the ranger post was, "...wild dogs...Katisunga plain...hello...hello...Mark?"  The camp managers from our distant neighbors in the park were trying to give us a heads up because they knew we have 8 guests at the moment and that we would love to see this rarest of predators.  Even I and Kristen have never seen dogs in this park, despite a scattering of sightings by the guides and guests. 

Not having very specific information, but knowing Katuma camp had no guests which made it unlikey they were out in a vehicle, Maripet and I assumed the dogs would be near their camp.  We wanted to find them and see if they were stationary enough to radio the guides to bring the guests.  Breaking some park speed limits, we reached the edge of the plains and started scanning.  Maripet has at some point in his life undergone surgery to have binoculars surgically implanted behind his eyes, or so I have accused him, and despite his denials I still think I am right.  For this I was very thankful, since I had made the conscious unforgivable decision to leave my binoculars hanging over the back of the same chair in the office where my camera bag was hanging.

So I think you're getting the idea here, that this blog will be pictureless, despite its subject being about my first ever wild dog sighting in Katavi.  I am cringing as I write it, because there is absolutely no reason in the world for me to have ever left that camera behind.  It has been ingrained in me for years.  I even advise guests on it, and joke about the karma of it.  For example, if one guest decides to stay in camp, there will be a great sighting on a game drive or walk.  If you leave your camera in camp, we sometimes joke with the leopard-hungry visitor, you will see one.  If you carry an umbrella, it will not rain.  Is this called Karma, or does it have another name?

It is eerily consistent, this phenomenon of special sightings sans camera.   Leopards, marshal eagles hunting, elephants and giraffes mating (on seperate occasions, not with each other), cheetah chasing a young zebra, all events witnessed when out on an errand or for some camp task, having made a conscious decision to leave the camera behind.  Perhaps we might devise a way to fool karma by having another car trail at some distance, carrying my camera in case of anything.  All this is moot, however, because the decision has been made: the camera goes everywhere, every time, from this day forward, forever.

So we found them, or Maripet did, then about a kilometre later, so did I.  He was smiling away like, "Yep, I told you."  To top off the situation, and I promise you this is not made up to enhance the story, the five wild dogs were lying right beside the track and behind them in the distance a rainbow stretched across the sky.  A perfect picture.  There we sat admiring the view, with my camera hung over the back of the chair, an hour's drive away.

A Place with no Name

Three days ago we drove into an area that doesn't even have a name.  And I don't mean in the old explorer's definition of "discovery," claiming and naming something which local people have known for centuries.  I mean a place which is nameless, locally and otherwise.  Not to say that no one has ever been there, but even so, whoever it was didn't stay long enough to name it.

We were driving through some thick miombo woodland (Katavi is protected partly because of this valuable habitat type) trying to follow what might have once been a road or something, when we started to see a lightening of shadows ahead.  You know that subtle change that tells you you're approaching open space, like driving toward the ocean.  Then, not only was there open space, but we were sitting on a ridge looking down into it.  A huge plain with zebra and eland grazing, warthogs kneeling, prancing, wallowing, and a single, rare Lichtenstein's hartebeeste strolling through the midst of it all.  This plain was spectacular, surrounded on all sides by woodland, making it a sort of giant but hidden clearing.

No one had a name for it.  The maps don't have a name for this place either.  We even consulted our old map called "The Original Villages of the Pimbwe in 1927" that lists all the place names in Katavi when small bands of hunter-gatherers roamed the area before it became a national park.  Nothing.  It was a very great day.  It was very Livingstonesque, a taste of what the old explorers of the continent must have felt on a daily basis.  

Blog Launch

Well we're launching our blog and it's a good day in Chada Katavi, slightly overcast, winds out of some direction or other, chance of rain a strong maybe, chances of sunshine about the same, and chances of us winning a writing award, nil.  From today onward, "Chada" will be how we refer to the camp where we live and host safari guests, and "Katavi" will mean we're talking about the national park in which Chada camp is nestled. 

Chada is a Nomad Tanzania creation, and to learn more about that, google it.  Nomad is the company who can put together your safari, if you so choose to do it some day.  We think you should, but we are not the marketing department.  As a matter of fact, they don't want us anywhere near the marketing department, which is why we're stationed in the most remote place on the planet.  I think we're allowed to say things like that, even though no study has been done to prove how remote we actually are.  Simply stated: If you walk for days in any direction, seeing another human is not an expected outcome.

What you will see are animals.  Animals by the savanna-load, so to speak.  Herds of buffalo, pods of hippo, prides of lions, flocks of vultures, journeys of giraffe, melodies of larks, blah blah blah.  Some people spend hours trying to figure out what a bunch of zebras should be called.  We call them a beautiful gathering of wild, striped horses, faster than most other animals out here, except some types of antelope and, of course, the Cheetah!

We spend our working hours being civilized, studying wildife behaviour, patterns, seasonal migrations...
We have dinner parties with our guests in a big tent, with some rather fine dining, if we do say so ourselves...
We take people on professionally guided walks and drives and our local guides' knowledge is staggering...
Sometimes our guests do some staggering of their own...

So the blog is our lighter side of safari life, our chance to show you what's really going on out here; our chance to be less scientific about wildife, to showcase how much the bush gets under your skin, how much fun it is and how much work it can be too.

Tomorrow we are expecting 6 guests, that means our camp will be exactly half full.  Yes, we are tiny.  Not only are we tiny, but the camp is too.  6 big tents on decks with outdoor showers.  The tents are, I just told you, big, so there is space inside for beds, tables, old fashoned wardrobes...it's really not too bad.

Only the insane drive here, so no offense to those few of you who have driven in this season (not to name any names, Paul and Erika, owners of Twiga Lodge overlooking Arusha National Park), but the way to get here is to fly.  Even by air, people step off the plane, turn in a bewildered circle, and then sprint to the nearest bush to pee.  These little planes don't have toilets and the flight is long.  The drive, and honestly Paul and Erika were the only 2 people this year to drive here, takes 4 days from Arusha.  4 days!

The above paragraph is exactly why we are not allowed near the marketing department.  Plugging another safari camp so shamelessly like that is grounds for banishment to the deep beyond...Katavi.  Frankly, we came to Nomad because of the Chada opportunity.  Having worked in southern Sudan, Kenya, Burundi and Uganda before, we really thought we were living in the middle of nowhere.  Maybe we were, but if that was the middle of nowhere, this is another planet.

To answer your question, if we are so remote, how are we able to blog?  We have a satellite dish, some wires, two lap tops, and a tall thin contraption with blue lights up the side.  We had to put a fence of thorny acacia branches around the dish to stop elephants from rubbing on it.  That is not good for reception, the rubbing, believe it or not.  This was never mentioned in the installation instructions. 

Speaking of Acacia trees, the Australians of all people, no offense of course to any Aussie safari clients or potential ones, you know, just saying.  Maybe we should be more specific.  Australian botanists have claimed that Acacia trees only exist in Australia; that African Acacia trees should be put in a different genus.  So just to be clear, this blog site will ALWAYS refer to them as Acacia trees.  Their fame is second only to maybe lions and elephants, and we will not be calling them Faidherbia any time soon, even if we could pronounce it correctly.

See you next time.  Mark, Kristen and 21 intrepid Tanzanians