That crocodiles have a crossword-puzzle pattern stamped on their backs. Buzz, snap.
Or that a leopard blends in slinkily, sneakily, in a forest dappled with dots of sun. Buzz, snap. Buzz, snap.
There is only one important animal, we think, that is missing. One that we have not seen or buzzed or snapped.
It is the one, says Anders, for which you come to Africa.
. . .
Lion, lion, lion, lion, lion.
I am saying this to myself, as if it's a chant. As if it's a prayer.
Lion, lion, lion, lion, lion.
It is our final Botswana day. We push off on a boat trip on the Chobe River, and there are baboons, and buffalo, and an elephant rumbling down a hill to drink.
We've got it all. The day is white hot. A monkey scampers beside us when we load up the truck and long-jumps in. We want him to ride with us to the airstrip. We've got it all.
Except for the one.
It is Wolfgang who, in our last half-hour, notices the shapes.
Low and lazy.
Swayback shapes that are resting. Now they're rolling in a field of grass. These are females, we know. And here's a round-bellied male stretched out asleep beneath a tree.
"Lion," whispers Louise.
There is a glow behind them that shows us each whisker, that somehow picks out the light in strands of fur.
Andreas lets out his whistle, soft and long.
Why are you here? I say to myself, remembering the man at customs. I want to see him again. I want to answer his question, once and for all.
Why did I come to Botswana?
Now I know.
Peter Mandel is a writer in Providence. His children's books include "Planes at the Airport" and "Boats on the River" (both Scholastic).