Cheryl's Safari Adventure
Written by: Cheryl Flugaur-Leavitt
Looking back at the 2013-2014 school year, my pulse quickens. Each day was full of multiple tasks: meeting with students, parents, bus duty, team meetings. Hard to believe I kept up that daily pace! Then I flip to November. One entry stops the hectic flow of minutiae. Written diagonally across November 13th in scrawled letters: ”Dad died”. Thus began the most stressful, grief-filled year for me and my social work partner Judy. I spent the next 7 weeks in New York.
Overnight I had become the matriarch of the family, taking on responsibility for my Mom with Parkinson’s, 3 of my siblings with disabilities and their finances, and the family home. While Judy covered my students, her father ended up in the hospital and later died. I covered for her. In March, a teacher died. In the next few months, Judy’s grandmother died, and in May my mother died. We continued covering for each other, sharing grief, stress, and responsibilities.
Throughout the next year, Judy and I kept telling each other: “We have to do something for ourselves.” Given the crushing weight of the previous year, we could not yet even imagine what that would be! It took years to handle all the family, legal and financial business that fell on our shoulders.
Finally Judy and I had room to breathe and even dream again. I won an item in a silent auction that caught my eye and ignited my imagination. I made a quick phone call: “Judy, we’re going to Africa!!!” At the Johannesburg airport a man asked Judy if she was African-American. He was intrigued with her. He said: “I really like African-Americans… (then looked at me)…not that I hate White people.” I assured him that I was not offended. This was the beginning of the racial role reversal for us, a dynamic that resurfaced throughout our trip.
After one night in our sketchy hotel room, with loud thumping music below, we headed to southern South Africa. On the way to the airport we passed walled compounds with barbed wire on top, were stopped by police for a “routine traffic stop.” In the airport there was a soldier with an automatic rifle, guarding what I don’t know!
A long drive introduced us to sugar cane country! Cane cutters walked along the highway selling cane at the tollbooths. We passed poor settlements with block buildings and circular huts, with thatched, metal, or clay tiled roofs, or no roofs. Goats and cattle grazed along the highway.
We arrived at the resort for a week of safari drives. Most of the guests were White. The Black staff were very interested in talking with Judy. We learned a lot about their lives: how far they were from home, their hopes and dreams, and the discrepancy between their income and the pay for the mostly White safari guides. Each day we went out in the jeep to see different parts of the reserve, and all kinds of animals: rhinos, giraffes, Cape buffalo, zebras, antelope, wildebeest, monkeys, hippos, crocodiles, warthogs, and birds of all descriptions.
One morning in particular stands out. We drove to a reserve about half an hour away and came back alive, seriously! There, we met up with trackers who had located a large male lion feasting on an antelope while a female waited her turn. Their low grunts called to the rest of the pride. Then, through the dry, dusty brush and thorny bushes, the elephants appeared bellowing, trumpeting, and roaring.
Our guide explained, “Elephants hate lions!” Sure enough, when the elephants charged, the lions scattered, only to sneak back to the kill. We had to keep moving the jeep to stay clear, ramming through thorny bushes and small acacia trees. Each time the elephants pulled back, they returned with another thunderous charge as soon as they heard the lionesses growling over the meat.
This back-and-forth went on for more than an hour. At times, lions passed right beside our jeep. It was intense, terrifying, and exhilarating and our adrenaline was pumping the entire time. That safari lit the spark for another theme of our trip: freedom, adventure, and joy. Taking risks, living in the moment, soaking it all in. That was truly our goal: to do something for ourselves.
Another day hippos were the attraction: whole families cavorting in the water. Snorting, going under, resurfacing. All of a sudden there was bellowing and big splashing – a conflict between two large males. The winner stood up and sprayed dung all over to display his irritation!
Later we strolled through the simple town to visit the market stalls selling fruit, trinkets, and baskets. Every woman had a “special price” just for me. When a truck with fresh pineapples arrived, a commotion ensued with women arguing over who got what. I called it the Pineapple Riot!
After a week, back in Johannesburg we had an interesting conversation over lunch with two women, one Black and one White, about the differences in racial power sharing between South Africa and the United States. Dinner down the block from the hotel brought a reminder of home: a Juicy Lucy burger on the menu noting it was from Minnesota! Judy mentioned I was the only White person we had seen all evening.
After Johannesburg, we spent three weeks traveling through Zambia, Botswana, Namibia, and western South Africa. Victoria Falls was otherworldly. The sheer immensity of the cascades, the depth of the ravines, and torrents of water plunging into the mist, crowned by an iridescent, ever-present double rainbow. Flying over it in an ultralight, essentially wings and a propeller strapped to what looked like a lawn mower engine, was both thrilling and awe-inspiring. Pure joy. Pure adventure.
In Botswana, we ventured into the Okavango Delta by mokoro, traditional dugout canoes. Hippos surfaced nearby, storks swept overhead, and a giraffe skull marked our campsite like a natural monument. At one point, my guide even let me try poling the mokoro myself. A sudden gust shoved the boat against the pole, and I toppled backwards into the muddy, reedy water, only to surface laughing, soaked but exhilarated.
The highlight of the trip came in Namibia: skydiving. I was both nervous and thrilled, so much so that I scribbled a note in my journal to my family and to Judy saying, “Just in case something happened.” At 11,000 feet, harnessed tightly to my instructor, we edged toward the open door. My feet rested on the tiny wheel strut, my heart hammering. Then—he tipped us out into the void. I screamed as we plunged through rushing air, the wind roaring louder and louder. Forty seconds stretched into eternity. Then, with a sharp jolt, the chute opened. I slid lower into the harness, one more spike of fear—before silence. Suddenly, everything was still. We floated soundlessly over a vast canvas: the ocean shimmering in sunlight, the Namib sand dunes rolling endlessly to the horizon.
I had not told my husband I was going to skydive. When I called him afterwards, he was amazed and said, “I guess I’ve been holding you back?!” What had been holding me back was all the grief, trauma, and the weight of all my family responsibilities. This Africa trip unlocked the joy and adventure that Judy and I had been missing!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cheryl Flugaur-Leavitt retired in 2024 after 34 years of social work, 23 years as a school social worker in Minneapolis. She had done a lot of traveling and wilderness camping before her 2 children were born. This Africa trip brought the joy and adventure of exploring the world back to her!
