What If…in Namibia

In Namibia’s Etosha National Park, the Okaukeujo camp boasts a flood-lit waterhole where animals can be viewed at any time of the day or night. Ro and I visited the attraction on the first night of our stay at the camp and waited with the other tourists for lions to drop by, or a herd of antelope to gather, or best of all, for lions and antelopes to battle it out for our night-time entertainment. We waited, and I saw a bird. A small bird at that, hardly more than a piece of fluff in the yellow haze of the flood-light.

On the second night, I contemplated staying in the room and catching up on my journal writing.

“But what if a pride of lions comes in?” asked Ro as she picked up her daypack and headed for the door.

“Okay, I’m coming.” What if, indeed. It would have been just my luck, and besides, I couldn’t stand the thought of my sister gloating about seeing something cool, which I hadn’t.

As we did the night before, we waited, and waited, and just when I was ready to leave, a woman further up the fence pointed, and all heads turned to the direction she indicated. I didn’t see anything and wondered if the woman was one of those people who stood in the street and stared into the sky with an amazed look on her face to trick people into thinking she had seen something amazing.

And then other people began to ‘ooh’ and ‘aah,’ and I squinted into the dim light.

“It’s a rhino,” said Ro before my eyes could detect a thing.

The animal was so slow and low to the ground that I thought it must have been a giant turtle. “It’s not very big.”

“I think it’s a pygmy rhino.”

I looked at her doubtfully. “It doesn’t have much of a horn. Maybe it’s a pygmy hippo.”

A second, larger animal appeared beside the pygmy, and it was clearly a white rhino, the wide snout that gives the animal its name (as in ‘wide’ somehow transformed to ‘white’), hovering low to the ground. As the smaller animal turned and revealed its features, we saw it was a baby white rhino. The group of onlookers ‘aawed’ and the night air filled with the sparkle of camera flashes. The mother and baby slowly bowed to the water and drank, and then stepped away from the waterhole and stood, just stood, like statues.

“What are they doing?” I whispered to Ro. “. . . besides nothing.”

“I think they’re asleep.”

I took some more photos and scouted the edges of the flood-lit area, hopeful that a pride of lions would still appear and make the scene more interesting. I heard a roar, and guessed it originated from miles away. “Boy, they’re loud. I wonder if they’re heading this way.” But the lions did not visit the waterhole, and the rhinos continued to sleep, until suddenly, they started moving and plodded off into the bush, out of range of the floodlight.

And then the waterhole was still and empty once more–except for the bird.

“Looks like the show’s over,” I muttered and turned to leave.

Ro followed close behind and said matter-of-factly, “Sounds like you won’t be coming back tomorrow night.”

I turned to her indignantly. “Of course I’ll be back. What if a pride of lions shows up?” What if, indeed.

About the Author: E. M. Eastick worked as environmental professional in Australia, Europe, and the Middle East before embarking on the writer’s journey. She currently lives in Guam.

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