“What do you most want to see?” asked our guide, Raphael, who looked all the world like a gun-toting Peter Pan.
“Elephants!” came the communal cry.
As two safari vehicles loaded with youth bounced through Majete National Park, signs of elephants were everywhere. There were recently fallen trees—pushed over by elephants, Raphael said—or large piles of elephant dung. But the big creatures alluded the convoy.
Herds of impala, with their single spiral-horned male, raised their heads and stared. There were waterbucks with distinctive circles on their rumps, a herd of warthogs, and vultures that took flight from the dead branches of a tree. There was even a tiny land tortoise that looked like a stone in the road; but the leading driver stopped, hopped out, and moved it safely to the side before the journey resumed. In the middle of a river, a whole raft of hippos floated and yawned and occasionally wandered up onto their island of rocks.
And then, as the journey neared its end, there was a glimpse of elephants through the trees. The herd was moving in the same direction as the convoy.
As the synod bus pulled out after lunch (and a handful of beers that would later get the Canadians in trouble with their teetotaling Malawi brethren), it was suddenly stopped again. There were the elephants calmly eating near the road, perfectly visible.
It was a study in patience, and of gratitude for unexpected blessings.
