“Look over there! They’re stuck in the mud. We gotta pull ‘em out!” exclaimed Godwin, our safari guide.

Two days ago, we had been in the same situation, our Toyota Land Cruiser slowly sinking in the deep Serengeti mud. But two guides had quickly come to our aid—one to pull out our vehicle, the other to transfer us to the next camp.

“But, Godwin, do we really have time to rescue yet another car?” I asked.

I already knew the answer. It was an unwritten rule among guides: Help your brothers because you never know when you might need help yourself.

My husband, Charles, and I were nearing the end of a two-week drive through Tanzania’s Serengeti National Park. The dry season, when most tourists visit, was long past. This was the “green season,” a short window of relatively dry weather between the lighter year-end rains and the downpours that begin in March.  It was a time of verdant plains, billowing storm clouds, and thousands of wildebeests rocking in one long line across the horizon.

Given the season’s unpredictable weather, exacerbated by climate change, we weren’t surprised by the flooded roads. Last night’s rain had pounded the roof of our tent so hard that we had to shout to hear each other. By morning it was over, but now we were dealing with the aftermath. It would be a long, wet drive to get to the next camp.

Godwin insisted: “I can get these guys out in no time; none of them has a winch as powerful as mine.” Then, softly: “Besides, it’s only right to help.”

“So how many hours until we reach our camp?” I asked. “Five,” he said. “We’ll drive north, exit the park near the village of Mugumu, then re-enter at Tabora gate before it closes.”

“And what time might that be?’”

“Seven.”

It was only 9 a.m., so this seemed doable. We would have time for game viewing along the way and a picnic lunch in the middle of the Serengeti. Truthfully, after last night’s downpour, we were ready to leave our tent behind and check into a proper lodge—one with a hard floor and sturdy roof. (Charlie was already complaining about having to zip up the “front door”.)

I turned my attention to the chaotic scene in front of us. Nine safari vehicles were lined up behind us on the road. Just as many had stalled in the grass on either side, sunk up to their running boards in a thick sludge that looked like chocolate icing. Winch-assisted rescues were happening all around us. Tires were spinning and engines were revving. Hoods were raised for ventilation and to provide cover (lest a cable snapped).  All the while, victims and rescuers ran back and forth, hooking up cables, both fabric or steel, and calling out instructions to each other.

Ahead of us, more safari vehicles arrived with their hatches popped open to allow passengers to stand for a 360-degree view. Some focused on the rescue missions, while others peered through binoculars at whatever wildlife was around. They reminded me of inquisitive prairie dogs perched on top of their burrows.

Godwin started his rescues.  Stationed himself behind the open driver’s-side door, he called out orders to the other guides like a general mustering his troops. In his right hand he held a small device that controlled his high-tech winch. In about 20 minutes, he had successfully rescued two cars.

Twenty-five yards ahead, off the road, was another lost soul.  Godwin hitched his winch to the front bumper and engaged the motor. The truck began to inch forward, wheels spinning. Godwin offered encouragement. “More gas,” he called. “Keep going.” Then, with a jerk, the vehicle leapt onto the road, black smoke spewing from the tailpipe. The crowd cheered wildly. Godwin was our hero.

As we started up the road, we saw another truck, sunk to the very top of its wheel wells. Godwin slowed for a look.  I tensed. No! No! Don’t stop!

“Too far gone,” he declared. “We’ll move on.”  I breathed a sigh of relief.

We had been introduced to Godwin eight days earlier in front of our lodge in Arusha, a small but bustling town about an hour’s drive from Tanzania’s Mt. Kilimanjaro International Airport. He was a tall man with twinkling eyes and a warm smile.   “This will be your ‘bush Lamborghini’ for the next 10 days,” he said, proudly pointing to his safari vehicle.

His Toyota Land Cruiser was equipped with all the amenities a photographer could wish for. Facing each seat were two large, rectangular zippered pockets to hold gear or papers, plus smaller cylinder-shaped ones for water bottles and hand sanitizers. Between the seats – mirabile dictu—was an electrical panel with two USB connectors as well as two electrical outlets that accepted plugs from any continent—no adapter needed. There was even a bean bag for stabilizing our cameras on the roof.  Gas would not be a problem—this baby carried two tanks.

It was not our first trip to East Africa. In 1989, we had visited parks in Kenya, including the Maasai Mara National Reserve, which borders Tanzania’s Serengeti National Reserve. The Mara’s semi-arid ecosystem spans both parks. Fences are forbidden, so the seasonal migration of wildebeest, zebras and other animals is unimpeded.

That first African journey was a true “mobile safari.” We traveled with a small group, lived in tents at night and pulled up stakes every day or two. We shared meals and sundowners (safari-speak for evening cocktails) around the campfire.

I recorded the details of this early adventure in a Christmas letter to my family. Now, 34 years later, I’m amazed by how well I described the experience. Without a camera, I had to rely solely on words to communicate my impressions. They held up over time.

 Since then, I have become a professional photographer and editor. On this trip, with four cameras (including two iPhones) and several lenses between us, I reasoned that Charles and I would be able to capture most everything. But on every trip, I am stalked by one insecurity:  When I look through the eyepiece am I distancing myself from what’s unfolding in front of me? Am I experiencing the scene “mindfully”? That question always takes me back about 30 years to wisdom shared by the great late comedian Jonathan Winters when he addressed a class of drama students at the University of North Carolina School of the Arts. (What luck that I was there!) Tapping his forehead with his index finger, he told them: “This is the only camera you’ll ever need.”

Godwin knew all the animals, their names and behavior, and could compare their hunting abilities. “You’re thinking the wrong way about hyenas,” he told us.  “A pack of hyenas can bring down a buffalo, one of the fiercest animals in Africa.”

Best of all, he knew where the animals hung out, whether on the plains or among the trees. By the end of the trip, I had checked 86 species off my safari list, 55 of them birds.

“See that bird over there?” Godwin asked one afternoon. “That’s the lilac-breasted roller. He’s the most beautiful bird in Tanzania but hard to photograph in flight.” The roller, he said, got its name from the aerial acrobatics it performs during mating season, rolling over and diving to the ground to impress the female.

I was convinced I could photograph him. Steadying my arms on the roof of the Land Cruiser, I waited patiently for him to take flight.

“Did you get him?” asked Charlie after the bird flew away. Sadly not. He was a red blur at the edge of my frame. “Don’t zoom in too tightly,” advised Godwin. When the bird returned, I tried again. Drat. Godwin shrugged. “There’ll be others.”

Later that day, I was faced with another challenge. A group of adult elephants and their calves were romping in a mud hole. Capturing an arresting still image would demand a long lense and a high-resolution camera. Although I am always looking for Henri Cartier Bresson’s “decisive moment” (the one shot that says it all),  a still image just didn’t seem up to the job. I wondered: Isn’t photography about more than capturing one dramatic instant? … What about the action in a scene? The story? What about motion?

“Let me help,” said Godwin. “Give me your phone.” As it turned out, Godwin had a great eye for composition and was rock steady when videoing with an iPhone. Here’s the sequence: Standing in a watering hole, an elephant stretches her trunk above her head as she flings water to the sky. A short pause. Then droplets of mud shower down on mother and baby. Godwin got it on video, and I captured the stills. But, now, looking back, my photo didn’t tell the whole story. Only two things captured that – Godwin’s video and Jonathan Winter’s preferred method of recording—a good memory.

We stayed at various types of lodges—from the luxurious Nomad Entamanu on the rim of the Ngorongoro Crater to Nomad Kuro, a tented camp that moves seasonally with the herds. Kuro was our most basic accommodation. But it was much better than those on earlier trips. This one had double sinks, high-speed Internet and power banks by the bed for recharging equipment.  Authentic touches were bucket showers (use the walkie-talkie to order hot water), mosquito netting around the bed and a spear-toting man to escort us to the mess camp after darkal.

The following morning, we started our drive north. This was the day Godwin became a Good Samaritan, pulling so many trucks from the mud.  But the excitement was not over. Farther up the road, cars were lined up on both sides of a washed-out bridge. Godwin, who knew the park’s roads like back of his hand, sought an alternate route. He zigzagged in all directions, fording streams that had once been roads. If one was impassable, he backed up and found another. “Hold on tight!” he warned, as he accelerated through puddles and drove through other cars’ muddy tracks to find the safest way through-

Yet Godwin’s confidence never seemed to wane. “What’s the plan if we get stuck?’ I asked. “Will you call for help? Do you have a satellite phone?” Godwin took his time to answer.

“We’re not stuck … I won’t call for help until I absolutely have to. It’s my job to transport you safely to Lamai.”

 As we moved on, Godwin was always the first to drive through a stream while others hung back. He never hesitated. But by 3 p.m., there were signs that he was getting nervous. We ate our picnic lunch inside the Land Cruiser.  Bathroom stops were less frequent.  Game-viewing was out of the question.

But then Godwin spotted a lilac-breasted roller. He stopped the vehicle and turned around. “You have one minute,” he said. I grabbed my camera, ripped off a short burst of frames … and prayed for good luck.

The last challenge was the most difficult—fording a deep and fast-flowing stream. For the first time, Godwin hung back to let another truck churn through ahead of us.  Then he followed, inclining his truck into the stream as water began to break over the hood. For one long minute, I was not sure we had the footing to make it across, but we did.  Once again, Godwin was our hero!

Epilogue

Around 6:00 pm, we arrived at our lodge near the Mara River. When we stepped out of the car, our legs were spaghetti. No surprise, since we had been sitting for nine stressful hours. Tired as we were, we managed to drag ourselves to the lodge’s dining area, which was built on a rocky outcrop overlooking the northern Serengeti plain. An inspiring view for our last “sundowner.”

With faint hope of success, I turned on my camera to see if I had captured that lilac-breasted wonder. I had indeed … from below and with wings fully spread!

Charlies, sipping his gin and tonic, wondered how I was reacting to Africa 37 years later. Did my first impressions, as recorded in that early letter, still ring true? Had almost four decades of lugging cameras, tripods, recording devices and notebooks changed how I respond—emotionally—to the Mara’s landscape, people and animals?

In 1989, my younger self reacted to Africa in two ways. I sensed primordial danger (hinted at by the nighttime roar of lions and the hysterical squeals of the rock hyrax). Yet I took comfort in the beauty of the land and the fascinating, sometimes comical, behavior of the animals. I wrote that I was touched “in a most familiar way by Africa, as if by a mother.” Africa, I concluded, “makes us look at details in the same wondering way we did as children.”

It’s true that my powers of observation have been amplified by today’s digital devices. But my thoughts about Africa remain the same. It’s a place of inspiration and learning—but only if you take time to study what you’ve captured, whether through a camera or in your mind’s eye.