by Lara Blunte
“I was there, the first time Chris saw Adroa,” she told me. “It was like a soul meeting another. I can’t explain it and you know I’m not into anything mystical, but it was as if they had known each other forever. I think Chris decided to stay at the hospital on the spot, when he saw that boy…”
Chris had never adopted Adroa because he had no household, no one to care for him and there were other children in need. It had been easier to establish a place for them all and to have people there caring for them.
"It was good for these children to be with each other, but all of them are desperate for parents, much as they seem to love being with us," Miriam told me. "Each one of them wants a mother and a father, very badly.”
I nodded; I knew that, I had seen it. But Miriam had more to say.
“Adroa already loves you and you will be going away in six weeks. How will he take it?"
“I understand…” I said, though I had a couple of tears burning their way up to my eyes, which I successfully kept inside.
"Don't let him love you too much,” Miriam said gently. “It may feel good, but he will suffer later. And so will you!”
"I know, you're right. Thank you, Miriam, you always talk sense into others!"
She laughed. "Good old African mama wisdom!"
I started to see less of Adroa, while still spending time with him. I would involve other children in our playing, or take Musiga with us. I missed him, I wanted so much to steal him again, but I knew that Miriam was right.
It was also unfair to show favoritism to any child there, as all needed love and attention.
In any case, apart from working there I had been moving behind the scenes to see if I could get money for the hospital. I called Pete and told him right away not to try and avoid me now that I was asking for money.
"Crap, that's exactly what I was thinking of doing,” he said.
"I know. You need to help me."
He sighed. "Oh, all right, I guess if I don't I will go to hell or something."
"You won't see paradise, according to the fundamentalists."
"Don't really want to, if they'll be there. You do realize that money is the hardest thing to get in the world, don't you?” he asked me. "And that I will become a bore, asking my friends for it?"
"Yes, I am not completely stupid..."
"Just half crazy."
"Well, that's still half sane, which is more than I can say for a lot of people. Pete, anything people give will be good. I'm writing to my friends too. Even 1,000£ is money here."
"It would be a good time to milk Clive's guilt right about now,” Pete pointed out. “He could certainly open the Rolodex and find some great people, apart from giving you money."
I laughed. Good old Pete, reminding me that wickedness could be fun.
Nevertheless, I said, "I'm not doing that!"
"You may be getting all soulful just to forget, you know. It isn't like people to be really, really, really good. Or, which is more likely, you are doing it for the Hot Doctor."
“If you were here I’d strangle you.”
“Yeah, tell me you’d be there if he were five foot three and had warts…”
"I'm doing it for hot, caring, very tired doctor. Show his photo to the ladies and hide it from the gentlemen when asking for money! I will send you the hospital's bank account and I will Skype you in a few days!"
"Don't find it strange if I have blocked you," he warned.
In the meantime, Gideon and Miriam had convinced Chris to take some days off and he had decided to go to Murchinson Falls on a safari. According to him, it was very relaxing.
"I've never been on a safari," I said." I have only ever been in West Africa. If there were animals there, they have all been killed by wars."
"Come with me, then," he said simply.
Was this a move, I wondered? But he had never, ever made a move on me. I felt like a child, I wanted so badly to go, just for a few days...It would be a weekend and two more days. Just four days!
"You should see it," he told me.
"We'll go as friends?" I asked him.
"How else?"
So I said yes.
The Lodge
By Friday evening we were at Kibibi Lodge, in Murchinson Falls National Park.
Driving with Chris had been fun, as we had stopped along the way in tiny towns, where women prepared us food in cauldrons and in a traditional village, where laughing children followed us. Chris sat to talk to the medicine man, who showed him herbs and dried animal parts, while I photographed everything.
"Some of what he has is actually quite sound," Chris told me. "Except the snakehead amulet to keep people from getting sick."
When we reached the park and started driving through it toward the lodge, I held my breath as I watched the giraffes against the sunset. It was as if I had stepped into The Lion King or something. There were nervous baboons turning around to shriek at us, a hyena that was, as a matter of fact, chuckling and magnificent acacia trees standing alone in the yellow savannah.
The rest of the animals were coming out in a little while, but we were too tired to go on a night safari.
We parked in front of a reception mostly made of glass and I continued right through it to look at the Nile. Walking out onto the terrace, I felt awe at the river — so well known to readers of ancient history that it seemed to belong only to Egypt, but so long and mighty that it went through eleven countries. The source of the Nile had been discovered by John Speke in a great lake which was partly in Uganda, which he had named after Queen Victoria.
What I could see was only a sample of the river, yet the waters flowed swiftly with a mighty roar. To my right there were hippos and eagles floated above.
Chris came to stand next to me. "The most dangerous animals in Africa," he said nodding towards the hippos. "Never get between one of them and the water."
"I thought you could pet them!"
"No and they don’t dance ballet in tutus either. If they charge you, there will be little left!"
I had, in fact, been thinking of Disney as the hippos were so cute. Now I pictured myself splattered like a cartoon.
It was almost evening and we were taken to our rooms, by the Nile. They were luxury tents, the front part made of some sort of strong sheer mesh and canvas and the back built in stone, with a good bathroom, a spacious shower and all conveniences. The huge bed was in the middle of the sheer part and during the day we had the impression of being outside with nature. Chris told me that when night fell and I turned on the lights, everyone would be able to see me from outside, so I should close the curtains then. I thought it rather noble of him to warn me.
We dropped our bags inside and walked to the veranda we shared: the view of the river below was stunning.
Our tents looked the same and we stayed in them only long enough to shower, spray mosquito repellent on us and change into trousers and long-sleeved shirts. We then met outside and moved towards the bar for sundown cocktails.
It was an amazing place, an open bar with a roof shaped like an upside-down funnel. Pet baby giraffes cavorted around it.
"Ooooooh!" I cried.
When I tried to approach them, they ran away. The animal keeper handed me a carrot from a bucket and one of the giraffes, long lashes fluttering, stopped and came back to eat from my hand.
Oooooooh!
As we sat down in comfortable leather armchairs, I made eyes at Chris, asking him if he drank champagne. It was too gorgeous where we were not to have a whole bottle.
He shook his head at my pleading eyes. "You’re fluttering lashes just like that giraffe! Let's get the champagne."
He raised a hand and the waiter came over to us.
"It's on me," I told him, eagerly pointing at the list.
"Not bloody likely," he said decisively, as the waiter went to get our order.
“Why not?”
“You won’t pay for the drinks!”
I widened my eyes at him. “Don't tell me it�
��s because I am a woman."
"Damn right."
"What?" I was outraged. "That's ridiculous! What century are we in?"
"I don’t care.”
"You will let me invite you!"
"I will not!"
"Chris, how dare you?"
"You're in my country, I will pay for the drinks."
My mouth was open. "I can't believe you! What if you come to my country?"
"I hope I’ll still be the man."
"What else won’t you do?" I asked, leaning back in my chair. “I mean, in the war of the sexes…”
“Let’s call it the struggle of the sexes,” he said. “It would be quite a bizarre war, with so many truces.”
“All right, what else won’t you do?” I insisted.
I was very interested.
“I won’t ever go shopping for clothes with a woman,” he stated.
“No?”
I sounded disappointed, though what on earth would that ever have to do with me? Pig Clive had sometimes come and given his opinion about whatever I wanted to buy, only to then annoy me by liking something else.
“No, I can’t stand it. I see those miserable men walking behind a woman as she looks through rack after rack and tries everything on. They look so domesticated and they’re always trying to peek at some other woman changing her clothes…”
I gave a small snort of laughter and then thought that might be the reason Clive had not minded coming along.
I said, “Fine, you’re firm and in command. What else won’t you do?”
“Won’t let a woman come shopping for clothes with me either.”
“Well, I think most women want to do that when their bloke has no taste. You don’t wear weird T-shirts and baseball caps, or white socks with dress shoes…”
“There you go.”
“What else…?”
“I won’t be driven, in a car I mean. By anyone, unless there is really no other way.”
The champagne arrived, looking suitably cold. How I liked that orange label and the "pop!" sound. Chris thanked the waiter and said he would open the bottle. He did and poured me a glass.
I was a bit hypnotized by the bubbles, but remembered the amount of Ugandan shillings next to that item and said, “I shouldn't have ordered the Veuve Clicquot, not on your salary!"
He lifted his glass and we toasted. I took a sip, my eyes rolling.
"I am actually a rich man," he said.
"WHAT?"
I almost choked on the precious champagne. He smiled.
"I have lots of land in the east and coffee plantations for acres and acres."
"Liar," I said.
Chris laughed. "Maybe."
I almost started rocking back and forth in agony. "Don't tell me you are good-looking, smart, kind and rich! Don't tell me that!"
His eyes were crinkling."Why not?"
"It's too much in one package, like in Love's Furious Tempest or something."
I extended my glass, having finished the first one quite quickly.
He filled it. "When are we going to talk about your drinking problem?"
"I deny I have one."
"So what happens in Love's Furious Thingie?" he asked, leaning back with eyes half closed and a smile on his lips.
I sipped to disguise my desire to find my camera and snap a shot of that. "Well, a woman who is a closet feminist in Victorian times meets the Duke of Bumbleworth to find that his thighs ripple through his breeches and his elegant jacket can hardly contain his manly arms — or her dress her bosom. They hate each other at first sight and insult each other throughout the book until some storm has them together in the Greek pavilion at his incredibly vast estate..."
"And then everything ripples out of their clothes?"
"Precisely. But he is very handsome and, though considered a disgraceful rake, he will be entirely reformed in twenty chapters and the epilogue will state that he will be faithful forever. Above all, he's very rich, as who would read a novel where the main male character is a carriage driver with bunions?"
His eyes were twinkling again and he looked more relaxed than I had ever seen him. Well, he was on his second glass of champagne, right behind me and there was no hospital to go to.
"I’m not as rich as Lord Bumbleworth, I don’t think. And I don’t think I’m a rake, but I suppose I can be a dickhead."
"So can Lord Bumbleworth,” I said. “How are you a dickhead? All this macho stuff?”
There was something sad in his smile now. “I’ve been a dickhead to one particular woman,” he said.
I think my stomach almost churned with jealousy, though why on earth should I have been jealous of Chris and his mystery woman? Unless it was the thought that someone was loved by him, and loved quite a bit, judging by the look of regret on his face.
“Well, apologies sometimes do wonders,” I said. “Unless you’ve been like Clive…”
“No, I’m not like Clive,” he replied and again there was some deeper meaning behind his words, but he was staring at the setting sun now, without adding anything.
At that moment a mosquito began to drill through my pants as if its proboscis were made of steel and I punched my own leg. Chris threw his head back to laugh and the moment ended.
After four glasses (me) and two and a half (him), he took me out to see a baby elephant. I couldn't help thinking it was the one of the most adorable things that ever lived, though Chris warned me they could be dangerous.
"You don't want to make a baby elephant mad," he said.
He reached around me and I almost jumped thinking it was a fast move, but he was only putting nuts in my pockets.
I was puzzled until, as we continued talking, I felt something moving around my waist again. Really, he swore we would be friends and he wouldn't be making cheap advances! But, as I looked down, I saw the elephant's trump sniffing my pocket, while his innocent eyes stared at me.
"Let him get the nuts," Chris said.
I felt ticklish and laughed as the trunk rummaged in my pocket and came out with its prize. The baby elephant put the nuts in his mouth and chewed, still staring at me.
Chris and I went to dinner, where we laughed and talked about everything, except the hospital, the patients, the sadness, or any other reason why he might think he was a dickhead. We laughed and talked and then he said we had better go to sleep, as the safari next morning would start at five.
Safari
I'm glad I went on safaris before the animals are all dead, before the rhinoceros and the elephant are just pictures to illustrate the alphabet on some 3D hologram for kids.
I'm glad I know and can immediately recall what it's like to wake up in the chilly dark of Africa, to gather around a fire while someone rakes the embers and warms coffee, to hear preparations being made, the metal doors of jeeps opening and closing.
Then there is the gravelly sound of the jeep moving over a road as nature awakens and there is the smell of the fine light dirt being lifted. As the jeep races through the savannah, the great acacias seem like cut-outs against the deep pink sky.
There was something profoundly beautiful to it that first morning, something that had me standing up in the open jeep, clutching the metal bar and drinking it all in. As usual, when I am overwhelmed by a situation I usually leave my camera in its bag and forget about it.
It wasn’t long before we saw the animals, the giraffes swaying in their long-necked ballet, buffaloes that stopped and stared at us myopically, a rhinoceros trotting by with an armored baby by its side.
Chris drove the jeep himself, though a guide called Yoweri sat in front holding a rifle across his knee for protection. As he had told me when we met, Chris was African and here he seemed to flourish as we rode through vast open spaces covered with yellow grass.
Antelopes were leaping in the air in front of us.
"Jafis," Yoweri said.
"Jafis?" I asked, following them with my eyes.
Chris laughed. "Jafi: just another fucking
impala."
I saw the elephants in a clearing, their tails moving back and forth as they surrounded their babies and almost ran along with us. Their ears flapped and they lifted their trunks.
The lions made us wait, like good royalty, but we finally spotted a pride. We sat watching them for a while from the jeep. The male lay on the ground, looking anywhere but at us, much as the silverback had done in the forest. The females moved around each other and nudged the cubs.
"If they haven’t eaten, the lionesses will be hunting soon," Chris said. "And then they’ll sleep."
Later we stopped at the edge of the river to have some tea, though I was nervously looking at the tall grass to see if there might be a lion or leopard stalking us. But the sun was already too high for them; they had probably gone to sleep in the shade.
Baboons, however, materialized and chattered hysterically.
"Don't even think of feeding them," Chris said. "They're assholes."
"That, from a man who studies primates!" I exclaimed.
"It's true, they are assholes," Yoweri agreed.
We had left at five o'clock and returned to the lodge by ten. The safari had been breathtaking and at night we would go out to look for the elusive leopard. Then I would have seen the big five: buffalo, lion, leopard, rhino, elephant.
At the lodge, half sleepy, we decided to go to the pool, where I finally got a look at the rolling arms, chest and the tight abs of Dr. Burton. I forgot that it was the first time he was catching sight of me as well and almost blushed as he said, "Cute bikini."
To be perfectly honest, I don't think we are ever any older than thirteen, especially around a handsome man. I confess I was going into a dreamlike state. It had begun in the early morning, when the light had turned his hazel eyes green; now this state of contemplation was being nourished by the sight of a tall, fit body doing laps in the pool. He swam toward me.
"Feels good," he said.
"Hmmm."
The lion had got my tongue.
Friend, Reader, Feminist! How many of us are made to resist the square jaw of the male, his strong arms and chest, his thick hair — when it is to be had — his deep voice, his lovely stubble? You, perhaps. And me, because I had been burnt in the blaze of an explosion. Had I been an emotionally healthy girl, I would have thrown myself at the promise that was Dr. Burton. His knowing eyes and crooked smile promised rapture.