A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“Safe as kittens in their mother’s mouth,” Dirk, who Ricardo later refers to as Dirtik, says.

“And then there was a zip line and we went flying through the forest,” Nate adds, as though I need to hear more. “Are you feeling better?”

“I hope so,” I say, because, honestly, I can’t imagine feeling worse.

“Likely something you ate,” Pieter says. “Zulu cooking can kill you.”

“Really?” Ashley asks.

“Not really,” Pieter says for her benefit. There’s something in his tone — call it racism — that I really don’t like.

In the late afternoon, we arrive at camp. “Just in time for tea,” Dirk says. We are shown to our tent, which is kind of Lawrence of Arabia, over the top. It is less like a “room” and more like a tented house — with a large wraparound porch, a living area with Oriental rugs, couches, comfortable chairs, old trunks as footstools, lamps, a campaign desk in case letters need to be written, a bathroom with an enormous old claw-footed tub that opens right out into the bush. There are bowls of Gummi snakes and small stuffed animals for the children. Two black servants bring in tea, lemonade, and biscuits — cookies filled with lemon crème — and peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. I can’t decide if this is the way things are always done or if Sofia asked for some kind of special treatment.

We rest for an hour, and then one of the guides comes in and talks with us about the safari drive we’ll go on at dusk. The rules are reviewed — cameras are welcome, no loud talking, never any yelling since it could cause an animal to stampede, no getting out of the cars, no trying to feed or otherwise attract the animals closer, hands in the vehicles at all times.

I drink the tea and worry that while watching lions have their dinner I will once again have to relieve myself. I think of canceling, but the idea of sending the kids off into the twilight with Pieter and Dirk just isn’t going to work.

We rest; I give the kids the safari packs Sofia made for them, cameras, hats each with a giant metal button, “NATE’S BIG BM.”

Dirk brings me a special drink. “This will help you feel better,” he says.

“What is it?”

“Gatorade,” he says. “We keep it on hand for pregnant ladies.”

I’m not sure if he’s teasing or not, but I do feel better after drinking it.

In the car with us for our evening drive is an older couple from the Netherlands. “I’ve wanted to do this my whole life,” the husband says. The wife, who speaks no English, nods along. “My grandfather came here years ago and brought home an elephant’s skin.”

“He killed an elephant?” Ricardo asks.

The man nods proudly. The rest of us say nothing.

“As you know, this is a photographic safari,” Pieter says. “The only thing that will be shot is a camera.”

The fellow from Amsterdam nods grimly, as though he’s really wishing he signed up for more.

“We know that a pride of lions lives in this area; there are multiple females, a couple of males, and some cubs who are a few months old.” The car slows down. Pieter whispers, “What we see here, across the road, are fresh paw prints from the pride: they’re close by.”

Suddenly one of the black guys points off to the side, and we see a male lion emerge from the bushes, followed by a female and a few younger cubs. The male lion appears to be stalking something; his tail twitches.

“I know this lion,” Pieter says.

The lions come closer and we all begin taking pictures of the lioness and her cubs, and then another female lion approaches and we track them to an area where several lions are chewing on what is, thank God, an unrecognizable carcass.

“What are they eating?” the fellow from Amsterdam asks.

“Steenbok,” Pieter says.

“Are the animals fenced in?” I ask. “Is there any chance of running into a wild lion along the road?”

“Very little,” Pieter says. “Most of our big animals are in game parks and reserves. You might see monkey, baboon, or some antelope out and about, but highly unlikely that you’d spot elephant, lion, rhino, or buffalo. …”

“And do people still hunt those animals?”

“They do,” Pieter says.

“In a fenced park, that seems kind of pathetic,” Nate says.

And no one says any more, until Ricardo says, “So this is kind of like an indoor/ outdoor zoo?”

“Sort of,” Ashley says.

We spot a male lion having an argument with another male, and that’s good for about a hundred pictures, and then we make our way back to the camp as the sun is setting. The sky is enormously big, and before we are back, the stars are all out and we’re naming and, as a game, renaming constellations.

Our tent has been remade for the evening. Each of the three giant sofas surrounding the master king-sized bed has been turned into a bed, crisp white sheets, plumped pillows all draped with mosquito netting — at once opulent and rustic. We are given the choice of dining with the other guests or on our own terrace.

We choose the terrace. Each tent has its own “butler.” Ours is Bongani, a lithe young man with rich black skin who radiates goodness. When the children ask him to sit at the table and share their macaroni and cheese, he shakes his head no. “I have already eaten,” he says, “but it is good to see you enjoy.” Bongani brings me more Gatorade, some toast, and a pot of hot water in which to make my tea. Opening the kit Londisizwe gave me, I see there are balls of tea, each one labeled with the time of day and day of week they are to be used. Tonight’s ball is a dark purply black.

“Would you like cream and sugar?” Bongani asks me.

“Some honey if you have it,” I say.

“At safari camp we have it all,” he says. And it is uncomfortably true.

After dinner, I drink the tea, which is smooth and calming, and take a bath while the children watch movies — I overhear them talking. Ashley tells the boys that it’s very hard to be a girl in South Africa — girls get no respect. The boys tell her they haven’t noticed; I’m impressed that she did. “It’s depressing,” she tells them. “The women do all the work of cooking and cleaning but have no authority, no one cares about them.”

“I’m sure people care about them,” I say as I’m coming out of the bathroom. “But it may be that the fight for racial equality overtook the fight for women’s equality.”

“Basically,” she says, flouncing off to her bed, “girls don’t rank.”

Bongani offers to make the children a bonfire at which they can roast marshmallows. Their faces light up.

Oiled with insect repellent, they go outside to make s’mores; from the tent I can see the firelight flickering across their faces.

I stay inside. I’m exhausted but feeling a bit better, almost high in a strange way. I count nine tea balls left.

Ricardo falls asleep by the fire; Bongani carries him inside. “Do you want me to change him into sleeping clothes?” Bongani asks.

“I’ve got it, but thank you,” I say.

As Ashley and Nate get ready for bed, Bongani asks the children if they would like to hear a story.

“Yes,” they say.

And we are lulled to sleep listening to the melodic rise and fall of Bongani’s voice as he tells tales of heroic elephants and lions of long ago.

About an hour later, Ricardo wakes up and comes to the side of my bed. “I’m scared,” he says, climbing into the big bed. A little while later, Ashley says, “I can’t sleep,” and crawls in next to Ricardo. At 2 a.m., Nate wordlessly joins us. We are like a pack of dogs, curled around each other, softly snoring, jockeying for pillows and blankets. It’s the best night’s sleep I’ve had all year.