Megan called me on the phone once and said, “why don’t you come to Kenya for two weeks.”
“Can’t,” I said.
“Why’s that?” she asked.
I didn’t have a good answer, so six-months later we were in Kenya at a rental car counter looking for something with 4WD.
“Do you want insurance?” the clerk asked.
“Yes,” we said.
There are lots of safari tours out there. Camps set up, guides and cars ready for guests, guards watching for elephant, buffalo, and lions. Not many people buy a map and head off alone into the Masa Mara. We didn’t see any unless you count our reflection in the rearview mirror.
You learn a lot about a person when you’re sitting next to them as an elephant charges your car or when you watch an impala leap into a van’s windshield at 60 mph or when you’re forced to drive two hours with no brakes trying to reach the nearest town for repairs. You learn to trust them, believe them when they tell you that you’re crazy, but everything will be fine.
Even if you don’t believe it yourself.
Megan stepped out of her car at Moose Lake, a bag of venison bratwurst in one hand and mosquito repellent in the other. She gave me a big hug, then told me I was crazy and everything would be ok.
At least for a day, I believed her.