MY LUCKY SAFARI IN TANZANIA
brent slings his rifle and rests its barrel across his right shoulder as coolly as if he’d flung a cashmere jacket around him before stepping onto a yacht. He turns toward the five us who’ve been invited on this Tanzanian safari, but gazes directly into my eyes. “If anyone thinks he or she might run, please remain at the car. You’ll put the rest of us in serious danger.”
Is he talking to me? I resent that. Do I look like the running type?
I’ve anticipated this moment for the past six months. After reading aloud a travel story in a New York bookstore, I was approached by a tall, ruggedly hot Englishman (surprisingly able to pull off a beaded necklace) who was a Tanzanian safari guide and had the thickest eyelashes I have ever seen. He bewitched me with one line: “You should come and write about it.” It took about six seconds to agree and having been to Kenya and Tanzania years earlier, I’d actually loved the experience. The film Out of Africa inspired me to take a threeweek safari of my own. Perhaps as we spoke I envisioned that scene where Robert Redford washes Meryl Streep’s hair alongside a river while reciting poetry. I don’t think I’d ever met anyone quite like this guy. He possessed such an enviable passion. I was intrigued. What made a man like this want to live in the bush and, more importantly, what kind of shampoo should I bring?
As a writer, I predicted this would be my in depth transformation-revelation piece. I would be just like Karen Blixen, only without the syphilis. And, this guy, with his Simon Baker hair and British accent, would be my Denys Finch-Hatton. I confess, when I viewed his website the next morning I may
