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rental car agencies. Surprisingly, all the major names were represented: National, Hertz, Eurocar, and Avis. Heading toward the latter agency, I was rewarded when a bored young African woman handed me the jeep’s key within a matter of minutes.
    “An automatic, as you requested.”
    “Thanks. I’m spending the night at Letaba camp. Which way do I proceed?” I asked.
    “Leave the airport and turn left. The main road runs right into the Phalaborwa Gate. Once inside, the signs will direct you to Letaba rest camp.”
    This sounded encouraging. “So it’s just a few minutes away?”
    The clerk gave an indolent shrug. “The gate is close, but once inside Kruger it’s a bit of a ways to Letaba. I must warn you the road is bad in some places.” She passed me an area map and focused upon the next customer; a thin, washed-out man wearing thick glasses. I’d been dismissed.
    Tentatively I headed for the small parking lot and handed my car claim tag to a skinny black man in a blue jumpsuit. He pointed a finger at a sleek 4 x 4. The jeep gleamed jungle green, and came equipped with comfortable seats and a removable top for better game viewing. The languid attendant hauled my luggage into the spacious rear and showed me how to remove the roof before flashing me a lazy thumbs-up send off. Remembering my trial run in Cape Town, and chanting the little song of stay left; look right, I departed the minuscule airport for my grand safari. Over the next ninety minutes I spent my time alternating between avoiding potholes, lagging behind smoking trucks, and gazing amazed at the countless metal shacks situated just off the road.
    A wire fence, decorated in breeze-filled plastic trash bags, surrounded a makeshift soccer field where shoeless ebony youths kicked at a dilapidated soccer ball. A large trash heap, attended by sturdy goats and a rooting pig, stood near a water pump where a long line of skinny girls in outgrown faded dresses waited for a turn. An old man leaning on a cane and dressed in a drab brown suit surveyed the road. A brand-new Toyota Land Cruiser sailed past my slower jeep, packed with a lively white family obviously heading for Kruger Park.
    I passed a billboard decorated with the red curved and crossed ribbon symbolizing the fight against AIDS and a scrawny child of about five clad in a dirty pink dress, kicking at the dirt before waving energetically at me. I shyly waved back before gripping the steering wheel more tightly. Where, oh where was the gate?
    By the time I made it to the Phalaborwa Gate, I felt exhausted and irritable. I’d expected Letaba to be close, but realized I still had a great distance to continue to reach my lodgings. To top it off, I had headache that was threatening to transform into a full-fledged migraine. I left the rental vehicle to pay the park entrance fee. Here the grounds, though roughly landscaped, were well-maintained. I was surprised when the smiling park attendant handed me a large paper bag.
    “No plastic bags allowed in the park, ma’am.” The young man grinned, a wide gap situated charmingly between his front teeth. His tag indicated the comforting name of Charles. He sold me a detailed map, stating, “Not to worry, ma’am. Letaba is due east on the H-9. Just follow the signs. You’ll pass through the Rhidorda Pan, where one often sights giraffe and elephant.”
    My pulse quickened as I followed a white Mazda onto the tarred road. I had just handed the entry form to the green-uniformed guard, when I gasped and pointed out the window. There, a large, graceful herd of brown and white buck, a few sporting twisted black horns, grazed tranquilly near the entrance.
    The guard chuckled. “Impala, miss. There are thousands in the park. See their bottoms?”
    I peered intently. A telltale M decorated each buck near its white, tucked tail.
    “They’re the McDonald’s of the park. Everything wants a taste of those juicy hindquarters.” I laughed merrily with him before heading