Ismael Merchant Tribute

One night at the turn of the century, Roamer and I were in South Africa. We were locked in a fenced perimeter many kilometers from Skukuza Camp on the outskirts of a big-game reserve for the evening. Hyenas scavenged on the other side of the fence, and you could hear elephants crunching around in the distant bush. There was a thunderstorm threatening the sky as we sat down to dinner. We sat under a large metal awning supported by a few wooden poles. A white tablecloth was between us. Most other tables were empty. The African waiters were dressed in white jackets. We were served tea and then the storm broke and rain drove a hard beat on the metal roof. Lightning struck and the power went out for the little outpost. The waiters rushed tiny kerosene lamps to each table. The rain continued at a less threatening pace, drumming steadily above us, and the sky flashed in dark colors. We ate modest fare that was served in courses, including eggs and fish. The power stayed off through desert. It was my last night in the country, and I had to leave Roamer to her work for two more weeks without me. The hyenas still laughed outside the fence.