Just outside the quiet, dusty Orpen gate, on the western edge of Kruger National Park in South Africa, there is a lean-to of a shop carrying handmade goods from local craftsmen. Hanging from the ceiling on one end and along the front were an array of drums and other percussion instruments of all types and sizes. They were handmade with leathers, rawhide pieces, bone, and animal skins. The big bongo drums came in a vast array of tans and black, sands, browns, reds, and every imaginable shade of earth and animal tone in between. Pieces of animal skins were woven together with long cords of rawhide and strings of leather, pulled over a bone frame. They were so beautiful, so precisely made, it was hard to choose a favorite.  

 

Even as I meandered amongst them, trying to talk myself out of it, trying to convince myself of the sheer inconvenience of carting a large bongo drum around Africa for the next three weeks, I knew I wanted one. I told myself security might not let me take it on a flight, and I certainly couldn’t check it. Then I thought perhaps I’d see a similar one somewhere along the way, but we’d traveled quite far already and had not seen these before. Or maybe I should just get it “next time.” Lara laughed good-naturedly, and encouragingly, as she knew we were leaving there with a bongo drum.

 

Everywhere we went, the drum stirred a response. Going through airport security with the drum became predictable. A tall stern security gentleman would pick the drum up off the conveyer belt before it went through the scanner. He would look it with furrowed brow, over and over, turning it around and upside down, shaking it to ensure it was empty. Then finally, each time—the stern face would break into a huge, slightly embarrassed, delighted smile as a beat or eight on the drum could not be resisted. I will never forget the beauty of those smiles. 

 

Then there were the flight attendants who took great pains to find a safe space for our souvenir, as it refused to fit in all but the biggest overhead. It usually ended up at the front of the plane, passed from person to person, nary a one who could resist a beat or so on the drum and the laughter it brought. Everywhere we went, the bongo drum brought an unanticipated moment of joy and an opportunity to connect.

 

My bongo drum brings back wonderful memories of that trip; the grins of people who probably thought we were nuts; the smiles of the Africans who appreciated that we loved something enough to go to all the trouble to lug it a long way home. It sits on my hearth to this day and is a constant reminder to just do it. To go now. The world is changing. Travel is changing. Our Russia tour was cancelled after the invasion of Ukraine. Tours to the Middle East and the Holy Land are on hold. The fragility of the Arctic in the context of climate change is causing nations to rethink tourism there, and even in Europe, leaders are passing legislation to restrict tourism. The world is changing in ways that we cannot control.

 

If there is a place you love, a dream you have, go now. Travel now. For me, the beauty of the bongo drum is as a constant reminder to take the time to do that thing, whatever that thing is, to take that moment, because you may never pass that way again.