TOW COUSINS SAFARI

“He’s stalking you.”

“No, he isn’t – he just wants that solid shade under the A-frame.”

“Look how he’s staring at you.”

“He’s just curious – he’s never seen a naked human before.”

“No – he’s stalking you.”

“What do you mean ‘No’? Who’s The Great Kalahari Safari Leader here?”

I had picked Cousin Mike up at Oliver Tambo 11 days before, to embark on his first Kalahari Safari. We’d known of one another’s existence all our lives, but had met only three months before at a soirée in Harlow, England. My conversation – as always – had involved a rhapsodic description of the Kalahari. Mike, apparently, was sold.

A week after my return to Africa, I received an e-mail from him in London: “Can you show me the Kalahari?” And that was it - dates were set; costing done; pith helmet and map of Botswana ordered by Mike. The helmet was his silly contribution to the whole African Safari of 70 years ago. He would be the pale-skinned rookie, and I would be the ‘Bwana’. (I would have preferred to be the Great Kalahari Safari Leader).

When he stepped off the plane (sans pith helmet) he was still bearing the tan of the most recent of his cycling trips all over the world, and looking like a slightly younger version of The Duke of Edinburgh. (At Thakadu Lodge outside Ghanzi, our hostess, The Gorgeous Marietjie, stared and said, “I know you. You’re from Maun.” I mentioned his resemblance to Prince Phillip, and the light came on. “Aah, yes. I’ve just watched a documentary on Queen