Rhino Tracking with the Boys

Frequently we look at each other wondering if it's real and that we truly are in Africa. It's my dream of a lifetime, and I worry that I've already used up 3.5 months of my alloted 18.

Elder Adams said he wanted to go Rhino Tracking on his next P-Day, and since these elders get transferred every 6 weeks and we might lose him to a distant assignment (and partly because Aaron has a hard time denying anything to his Elder Adams), we sponsored 8 young elders on a Rhino Tracking Safari. They work so hard and so dutifully, and we believe they should also experience the unique culture and the wild bush of Botswana. So we loaded up...

and laughed until our sides hurt watching the boys jossle and fool around and sing Lion King songs and smack each other in playful comeraderie...

We observed warthogs and impala and kudu and giraffes but got super excited when the safari vehicle finally pulled over for us to get out and track the rhinos on foot.

Our tracker was a bonfide bushman; petitie, undernourished, quiet (did he utter even one word?), and gifted beyond reason at tracking in the bush. We thought he was trying to pull the wool over our eyes when he pointed out rhino prints on the hard packed dirt, as we could see absolutely nothing there. Or when he showed us obvious hoofprints that could have been from a hundred different animals over a 6-month period. Or when he pointed out alleged rhino scat which we thought could have been elephant or giraffe or who knows what just as easily. As we plodded through the bush, I wondered if he was just filling the time of silly tourists who'd unwittingly paid to follow him on a rhino wild-goose chase through the bush.

But within a half hour we spotted a family of rhino resting amongst the trees, and I mumbled my humble apologies for ever doubting him. He allowed us as close to the herd of 6 terribly near-sighted rhino as was deemed safe where we watched as they napped in the late morning sun. The boys thought they'd died and gone to heaven they were so excited. As they struggled to verbalize their elation, one finally put it into words with profundity, "Today was a very good day."

After an African lunch (everything battered and deep-fat fried and devoid of any semblance of protein), we spotted two hippos at the far end of the lake. Our driver took us to the far end, but those dang hippos move super fast in the water and they'd already crossed back to the other side.

We completed our 5-hr rhino tracking adventure by watching in stunned fascination as Elder Tolbert displayed his super power; he wings a grape as high in the air as is humanly possible and then deftly catches it in his mouth. He has spent the better part of his short 19 years on earth mastering his craft. Teeth may have been chipped when testosterone fueled competition led the rest of the guys (my husband included) to attempt this amazing feat.

All good things must end, so back to our work we returned, this time to travel to distant Francistown to meet 15 young missionaries and inspect their flats for needed repairs and necessary household goods. The flats are initially set up with all that is necessary for home cooking and good living, but the Law of Magical Evaporation expresses itself in the lives of these 19-year olds, so we shopped for sheets, pots and pans, silverware, toilet plungers, toasters, rugs, mirrors, and shelving. As well, we fixed and repaired what we could and contacted landlords and repairmen for what we couldn't. My favorite situation happened when I flipped on the kitchen lights to better inspect inside cabinets only to discover that the kitchen lights were completely non functional. When querried about how long the lights had been out and how had he managed in his dark kitchen, the affable Elder Theakston-Thomas replied that he'd solved the problem handily and then showed me the headlamp he affixes on his head to "solve the problem." Ay yai yai.

Our 4-day stay in Francistown was absolutely delighful from the two senior couples we enjoyed dinner with to the 15 young elders and sisters who regaled us with tales of living and working in Africa to the posh and tropical setting of our hotel to the faith-filled members of the branch with whom we worshipped on Sunday. The church in Africa continues to explode, and this small group of the faithful in Francistown have outgorwn the small house which serves as their meeting place, and they asked us to pray for a larger building in which to grow.

Our hosts, the lovely Young's, spoiled us with a field trip to the crocodile farm nearby. The farm is only one of 30 which survived COVID and which supply world-wide demand for crocodile hats, wallets, purses, skirts, shoes, belts, and crocodile meat which I am informed tastes just like chicken. The complex croc-farming enterprise consists of harvesting eggs, carefully incubating them (as even slight variations in temperature destroy them), and then raising crocodiles to either be slaughtered and harvested or to procreate and mulitply.

The weavers smartly build their nests over the croc ponds where its safe from maurading weasles and snakes which make tasty snacks for the crocs underneath.

We learned as a fascinating aside that crocodile sex is determined when the soft-shelled eggs are incubating. Warmer temperatures stimulate their WW chromosomes (as opposed to our XY) to develop into either male or female. The mother will continually urinate on her eggs to keep them cool and thus propogate the females, but at this farm, males are propogated at a preferable 70% rate.

The crocs are divided into groups based on their necessary functions. Some are left in integrated enclosures to encourage mating (which happens in the water) and egg laying (which happens in a hole the female digs in the ground). Other crocs are separated into private water enclosures with finely grained and routinely groomed soft sand so as to prevent any scratches on the soft underbelly of this rather prehistoric looking creature. The soft skin of the underbelly is the most precious commodity and is what keeps this enterprise funded. Routinely, the farm staff choke the crocs with a lasso until they pass out, quickly flip them upside down, and then rapidly polish the underbelly with a product not unlike fingernail polish so as to protect the skin from receiving any scratches. Still other crocs are segreagated out from the rest as they may be too aggressive and fight with the others thereby damaging their precious coats of skin. Twas one fascinating 2-hour tour. Who'd have ever known.