Oh, I can’t speak for the dead. And I won’t speak for the missing. I can only tell you what I think happened. Others—the dead and the missing—would probably have their own versions. Blame, I can tell you firsthand, is every bit as subjective as truth.

Of course, I am also confident that the missing will never be found: the Serengeti is vast and it’s been years. Years. But Africa is changing. One never knows. Someday it’s possible that some of their bones—a femur that is recognizably human or a skull that was clearly a woman’s or a man’s—will be spotted beside a dirt road where a jackal or hyena or magnificent lappet-faced vulture decades ago finished off what a leopard or lion didn’t. Just think for a moment of the age of the fossils and remnants of ancient man that have been found a little south of where we were in the Olduvai Gorge. Mary Leakey began piecing together the Nutcracker Man only five years before we were there when she saw what looked like two teeth in a jaw. Nutcracker Man lived two million years ago. We went there and (most of us, anyway) died there in 1964.

So, perhaps a ranger will discover the bones while tracking a poacher. It could be just that ordinary.

But let’s be clear. This story was never about Western, privileged tourists or local Maasai or Tanzanians. It was never about rich or poor, Americans or Africans. We were all just people, and most of us had no idea what was happening. We had no idea what to do. We made the best decisions we could, but think of who we were and where we were. The mantra for most of us? Just stay alive. See if, somehow, we might see the sun rise one more time.