From Africa to Alligators

We went camping with the alligators this weekend. Unglamorous beasts I know and yet I feel sorry for them in a way. Why shouldn’t they get the same star billing as the manatees, flamingos, and rare salt water crocodiles that pop up in Southern Florida? I suppose alligators fall into the same category as the hyenas of Africa where bad press keeps them low on the “must see” scale. As hyenas are aware, rotten teeth, stinking breath and coarse hair doesn’t make for glamour ratings when compared with sleek leopards and adorable lion cubs, and in similar vein, alligators just lie around and stop you from swimming on a hot day, and don’t exactly leap off the “ohh and ahh” scale like a fat cuddly manatee or a friendly dolphin. Mind you, as we watched them dining on some understandably nervous fish in a large swamp, there was enough snapping and roaring to satisfy even the most blasé wildlife enthusiast. Just before hurricane season really got going, we had found a tent at half price. Everything in Florida is eventually half price and it is just a case of being in the right place and in the right mood at the right time. Had it been pouring with rain or blowing a chilly breeze, we would probably have walked straight past the lofty canvas (or whatever “technodry” material they use) erection and passed by en route to the hiking boots department. The moment we stepped through the double layered, mosquito proofed doorway and found that not only could we stand up without touching the roof, but had room to entertain on a fairly lavish scale, we were sold. It seemed to come with divorce-proof instructions on how to put the thing up and before we knew it, we had stowed our new possession in the “trunk” as we are learning to call the car boot, and were off in search of gas stoves, battery lamps, unbreakable coffee mugs and a pump for the air beds. Many years ago, we had camped extensively throughout the little African kingdom of Lesotho but that was camping on a major scale. Knowing that we would see nothing by way of supplies apart from the occasional café on the side of the gravel track which might yield up a few dented tins of pilchards and cans of hot fizzy drinks, it was best to be totally self-contained both in the food line and in the mechanical one as well. Fresh trout were wonderful cooked over an open fire in a frying pan full of butter, but we could never rely on actually extracting them from their hiding place in the river, so a few good steaks were always packed, along with ice for the gin and tonics and marmalade for the toast. And so we found ourselves under a full Florida moon watching from our position on top of a camp table as the light of our torch caught the red pin pricks of light out across the water. The alligators were cruising their domain in the still of the night and the silence was broken only by the occasional hoot of an owl and the whine of a mosquito. We were an hour from the hustle and bustle of Miami but it was a world away. We returned to our campfire, and considered that instead of watching the sun setting behind the westward mountain ranges of Africa, we were looking out towards the Gulf of Mexico, but it is the same sun that sinks into the sea and instead of toasting the trout of Lesotho, we will raise our glasses to the alligators of Florida.