HOW TO TAKE A TEENAGER TO AFRICA, PART ONE

Five years ago, I decided I wanted to go on safari in Africa.  I wanted to see it before it was gone. I wanted to drive in a jeep, wind blowing through my hair, passing wildebeest and waving to giraffes.   My son thought it was a fantastic idea. But he was eight. At eight, Africa is cool.   At thirteen, Africa is two solid weeks of watching ‘dumb-ass animals stand around.’  I decided we’d better go soon.

Winter break, 2009, I went for it. I paid out vast amounts of money to tour companies and airlines and filled out papers for visas and passports. I made arrangements for shots  and malaria pills. I bought electric adaptors. Cameras with extra batteries. Pants that zip off into shorts. First aid, raincoats, ‘gators,’ Tamiflu just in case… It is a BIG job packing for this trip. Especially because I am accustomed to thinking, ‘well if I don’t pack it, I’ll buy it there.’ There is no ‘buy it there.’ It’s freaking Africa. There is no Target.  No CVS. There is (at best) a counter at a small airport that sells eighty year old Alka-Seltzer and santitary napkins  the size of a twin bed.

I told my son the arrangements were final. I told him all the details and he listened to me much in the same way he usually does. Which is to say, not at all. I know this because about a week before the trip he asked,
“When did you say we’re leaving?”
“The day you get out of school.”
“And when do we get back?”
“The day before school starts.”

He turned to me, furious.   “So, I get NO vacation.”

Thirty thousand dollars. Fourteen days. Business class tickets. Lions. Leopards. Hot air balloons. Tented camps.  And he doesn’t see it as a vacation.  One would think this might make me a tad upset  but folks, this is not my first rodeo.

“No,” I responded. “You get no vacation at all.”

He avoided all the preparations. He showed no interest whatsoever in the packing of the supplies. He was in complete denial.  When friends would try and engage him, (“Wow! I heard you’re going to Africa!”) he’d turn and stare bleeding holes through my head,  literally willing me to stop the senseless cruelty of all this.  ”Yes,” he’d say very slowly as though still trying to believe it himself.  ”Yes we are.”  A long pause, still unblinking.  ”And we just can’t wait.”

As the departure date got closer and closer, and he could no longer tune out the growing stacks of khaki clothing, he became hysterical at the concept that I was going to make him go through with this.

I… (and this is how I eventually won the war)… totally ignored him. For once, I took a page out of my parents book and just made up my mind that he had no say in anything.  I turned and floated out of the room as he screamed… “Where are we staying? Mom? Mom? Please answer me.  They have internet there, right?”

Well, no.  Where we were going, they politely suggest you might want to bring your own toilet paper…

TO BE CONTINUED…