We were to leave that evening early for the big game country and had to pick up a railroad ticket. I had attempted to make a round trip reservation for us from Johannesburg to Nelspruit and return while we were in Cape Town; a telegram received in Johannesburg confirmed the trip out but not the return trip and advised me to pick up the ticket at once.
I discovered that buying a railroad ticket in South Africa is considerably more complicated than getting married in Nevada. But my good angel, Sam, got me through it.
First we went to the city railroad station, an enormous place suited to the busiest railroad junction in the country and a city of a million. However, over the weekend it closes like everything else, even though the trains still run. All the ticket windows were closed but I had been told to go to the "Emergency Booking Office"-in South Africa, buying a train ticket on a weekend is classed as an emergency.
We managed to find it hidden away far from the main hall. There was a clerk there, doing nothing, and he had a record of my reservation but was disinclined to issue it; instead he lectured me on doing things properly. I tried to explain the circumstances that had forced me into the course of action I had followed, but Sam stepped on my foot and addressed him in Afrikaans. With great deliberation and reluctance he issued, not the ticket, but a document which authorized me to go to another part of the station, knock on a door, and ask another clerk to sell me a one-way ticket; he refused to sell me a return, on the grounds that I should have gotten there sooner. Two processes took the best part of an hour-the railroads are government-owned, of course, and have no competition other than from other government-owned bus and air systems.
We then rejoined Ticky and Sam's friends. Sam warned me that we must be down at the train at least thirty minutes before train time-forty would be safer. I wondered why, since we had tickets and a sleeper reservation; I did not understand the explanation but we took his advice, which was excellent. Instead of being able to go directly to our car it was necessary first to push through a crowd gathered around a bulletin board on which was posted the train's diagram of reservations; from this we found out where we were supposed to be. Then it was necessary to look up the conductor of the train on the platform, check in with him and have some more mysterious paperwork done, a lengthy process since a couple of hundred other people also wished to see him for the same purpose. We got aboard just barely in time.
I had time while waiting in queues to ponder the purchase of two tickets in Chile for a train ride of the same order of mileage-much shorter in time because Chileno trains run very much faster than South African trains (the crack Blue Train, the limited from Cape Town to Johannesburg, averages a dizzying thirty-seven miles an hour). In both cases we had been dependent on the kindliness of a local citizen to catch the trains at all, but under Chileno rules Mr. Thackeray had purchased our tickets in about seven seconds and had had us actually aboard in another fifteen seconds whereas Sam, sophisticated in the red tape and knowing the inner-sanctum language, had been forced to waste two hours of his time in two trips to get us on a train for which we already had made reservations before his efforts commenced.
As I recall, the Chileno railroads are government-owned, too-at least they operate without competition. On the whole, their equipment is poorer than that of the South African railroads. I am forced to the conclusion that the difference lies in the people, in some fashion.
At the steps of the train Sam kissed Ticky good-by and I kissed good-by both Sam's (Joburg) girl friend and her sister Laura, which made me one up on Sam for the first and last time. In a country that had polygamy those two sisters would make a wonderful package deal.
We sat down in our compartment as the train pulled out and proceeded to munch sandwiches that Sam had purchased for us in lieu of the dinner that we had not had time to get. The train had a quaint 1890 elegance about it, carved woodwork and pictures on the walls. The roadbed had been left over from 1890, too, although I've encountered some on the Main Line of the Pennsylvania which was equally bad.
The compartment was of a sort known as a "coupé," a wide seat for two running thwartships which could be opened out into two narrow single beds, one above the other. After a while a "coloured" came around and rented us bed clothes (they don't come with the ticket) and made up the bunks, which left no room for baggage or feet, so we went to the dining car, which was nice in the same out-of-date style; there we had tea and killed time.
Coupés are located over the truck, the middle of the car containing compartments big enough for the largish Afrikander families. The location heterodynes with the roadbed to produce an exciting but not restful ride. Nevertheless we dozed until the attendant showed up with morning tea. I brushed off a blanket of coal cinders and looked out. At last we were in the African big game country.
The countryside along the tracks looked remarkably like Illinois.
Ah, the romance of the safari! Stalwart native porters, their ebony bodies glistening with sweat, lift up their burdens, balance them on their heads and set off single file through the bushveld. The professional white hunter, bearded and taciturn, scouts ahead, ready to bring down meat for the simple evening meal. Suddenly the number-one boy, his eyes popping, trots back to your spot in the safari. "Bwana!" he cries. "Come quick! Simba!" You rush silently forward, followed by your gun bearer. The beast-
You can do it this way, if you want to. The tourist companies will probably conjure up the ghost of Allan Quatermain, for a price. There are porters to be had in Africa and professional white hunters as well; you can have a safari of any sort you want, even one with artificial refrigeration.
But if your object is simply to get into big game country, the more usual way is to pick up the phone book and look up "Southern Cross Safaris" or some other of the safari companies. They will send around a car for you, of the largish sort used by airports which have a baggage rack on top; a uniformed driver will drive you out to the bush and keep you and the other tourists out of trouble with the dangerous animals. This is known as a safari.
Another way is to hire a taxi and go out on your own. This is what Ticky and I did.
There is nothing wrong with hunting lions in a taxi. I'm reasonably certain that Allan Quatermain would have preferred it to his six-span teams of "salted" oxen; it is faster, cheaper, and much more comfortable. At the railroad station at Nelspruit we hired a taxi, driven by a mother of three, an Afrikander farm wife. I can neither spell nor pronounce her name but it was something like "Morgan."
She took us to a hotel for breakfast, went home to feed the baby, then came back and picked us up and we went out after lions, in a "Henry J." American cars are preferred for the bush, as the roads are not really roads but tracks, and the superior ruggedness of any American car, even a little Henry J., is much appreciated. Nelspruit is the nearest town to Kruger Park, which is the place to go if you simply want to see animals and not kill them. Kruger Park is 8000 square miles of everything, from lions to elephants; it runs from the Crocodile River north to the "great grey-green greasy Limpopo River all set about with fever trees" where Kipling's Elephant's Child got its nose stretched for its 'satiable curtiosity.
It was a pet project of Oom Paul Kruger, who feared that the strange and wonderful wild life of Africa might be killed off entirely by hunters not content with a trophy or two, but who would often kill two or three hundred beasts in a day. The whole world can praise him for his foresight; here is a place where a hunter could kill a thousand head in a day if his shoulder could stand the shocks. Kruger Park has in quantity every major animal for which Africa is famous except the rhinoceros-and rhinos are preserved in another park farther south.
An hour's drive over good paved roads brings you to the gate of the park. Inside there is no pavement, nothing has been done to tidy up the bush (we would call it "jungle") save to cut tracks and to build widely separated rest camps with kraals to keep the lions out at night. The route to the park is through Swazi farm country, between fields of mealies and gras
s huts. Piccanins are beside the road here and there; as our car approached they always started dancing, a sort of a Charleston combined with shoving the arms in and out as if rowing strenuously. We stared. "Why do they do that?" I asked.
"Oh," said Mrs. Morgan, "it's a welcome. They don't see many people out here, you know, and when one does show up they dance for him to show they are glad to see him."
We entered the park, paying a few shillings for the privilege, and started searching, driving slowly and always staying in the car as required by the rules. Almost at once we saw our first game, a buck kudu, which is a big fellow of the antelope type, with stripes, a goatee, and fantastic twisted horns. After that bucks of various sorts (and does and babies) came thick and fast; frequently we had to stop the car to let a herd of thirty or forty impala yearling bachelors wander across. The impala, pretty little things about the size of our eastern deer and very slender and graceful, were most numerous, but we saw a dozen other sorts, among them the cross-word puzzle gnu, better known in Africa as wildebeest, which looks as if it had not been able to make up its mind whether to be a horse or a cow, got discouraged and decided to be a mule. It is remarkably untidy in appearance.
There were delightful little duikers, too, antelope the size of a fox terrier, so fragile in appearance that you want to pick them up and take care of them.
I was searching the grass on each side for lion; bucks are all very well but I had come half around the world to see lions, wild lions in the bush. I had been warned that it was the wrong time of year and that I could stay three weeks and probably not see one, but I was hopeful, even though braced for disappointment.
The way to look for lions is this: look at every one of the smaller, rounded termite hills that you pass. If it raises its eyes and looks back at you, don't get out of the car; it's a lion. So far I had seen hundreds of termite hills the right size and color but none that stared back. Ticky was watching ahead; I heard her shout.
"Lion?" I asked hopefully.
"No-look!"
Crossing the road was a warthog mama, followed in single file by four of the ugliest and cockiest piglets ever, each with its tail straight up in the air. Mother was a Miss Africa among warthogs, with fine curving tusks and a wonderfully misshapen figure. We watched them until they disappeared in the tall grass and nothing could be seen but mama's proud tail like a little flag.
Ticky spotted the first baboon, too, a big bull sitting up on a bare limb about ten feet off the ground-a lookout. Each baboon family posts a guard, against leopard primarily as the lion prefers venison.
Leopards are tricky things, rated by the great professional hunter Mr. J. A. Hunter as the most dangerous animals, worse than lion, elephant, or African buffalo. They will enter a car to attack a man, which the lion is most reluctant to do; every time we passed under a branch Mrs. Morgan made us roll up all windows, sweltering hot though it was in the thick bush.
Ticky spotted three more baboon lookouts, all in similar positions on bare, medium-high branches, while I continued my termite-hill check. A baboon can outdistance a leopard in the trees, given a fair start, even though the leopard climbs like a house cat. I had just looked up to admire one of Ticky's bull apes, then looked back at another termite hill.
This one looked back at me.
"Stop the car!" I gasped. "Lion!"
Sure enough, it was-a beautiful, black-maned male, about forty yards from the car. It lay still but never took its eyes off us. When I could stop trembling I got out the field glasses, and gave them to Ticky-after taking the first look myself.
Forty yards split by a magnification of eight is five yards through the binoculars. It brought him so close we could see the yellow stains on his teeth when he yawned. I am prepared to swear on a stack of Baedekers that a lion in the open is much bigger than one behind bars. I don't think it was entirely my excitement, either; I think they probably grow bigger out where they lead a normal healthy life-for a lion, not for impala-with fresh meat and enough exercise. I can't prove this but I think it is true.
Ticky handed the glasses over to Mrs. Morgan, then said, "Hey! There's his mate."
And it was. In plain sight, not ten feet from the male, was a lioness, also lying in the grass and watching us. We had been so intent on our first lion that we had not looked. "Maybe there are more around," Ticky said nervously.
"You look-I gotta get a picture of this one-these one-both of them." I did so and she did so, reporting that none of the termite hills on her side were staring at her. Lions do stare with the unnervous steadiness of one who is utterly self confident. I took the picture . . . and it turned out badly; not only was the distance too great for the only lens I had but apparently I was shaking like a bride, even though my own recollection is that I was cool, calm, and dignified. I now find it necessary to tell my friends when I show it: "It really is a lion-it just looks like a brown ant hill."
I realized at the time that the grass was preventing me from getting the picture I wanted so I did something that I certainly should not have done, something quite properly forbidden by the government of South Africa: I shouted at the beast.
The results were pretty good. The male raised up and started lashing his tail slowly and forcefully, while measuring with his eye the distance between us. But I did not get my second picture; Mrs. Morgan let in the clutch and we scrammed out of there. She did not scold me for it at the time, but she put all speed onto the car possible. Later she told me about lions, balked at getting inside a car, which had clawed all the tires to shreds, including the spare if exposed. I had no suitable comment.
When we were a short piece down the road and it was evident that Felis Rex was not following she slowed down again. Then I pulled one of the longest double-takes on record: "Hey! That really was a lion!"
"Of course," Ticky said coolly. "That's what you came for, wasn't it? Who did you think it was? Bert Lahr?"
Then she stuck a match in her mouth and tried to strike a cigarette. "There was a lion," I said slowly. "There were two of them. They were lions."
Shortly I was puffing a cigarette nonchalantly myself and feeling very good about it, as if I had just won a Pulitzer Prize. They said we couldn't find lions! Francis Macomber Quatermain can find lions any day-just step off the train and flag a taxi. When we rounded the next curve and saw a car stopped and people outside it I leaned out and said, "Don't look now but there are two lions just back down the road a block or so."
A man looked up from an open bonnet. "Thank you," came a clipped British voice, "but at the moment my engine is overheated. Tell them to wait; we'll be along shortly, I hope."
We drove on.
No more termite hills stared back at us that morning, though we stared at plenty. But one more alarm took place: I had grown used to the routine of rolling up windows for every overhanging tree and was not especially surprised when Mrs. Morgan started rolling them up once without taking time to stop the car. I looked around, saw that there were no such trees. "What's the matter? Leopard on the ground?"
"Mamba!"
I was too ignorant at the time to be impressed. A green something slithered rapidly down out of a bush beside us and slid across the road with amazing speed-a snake more than six feet long and as thick as my wrist. Even in my ignorance it looked mean. Mrs. Morgan got us well out of the neighborhood as fast as the little car would go.
The mamba is the subject of many grisly stories in the bushveld country, most of them depressingly well authenticated. Its bite is much more poisonous than that of our rattlesnake; seven minutes from being bitten to death in agony seems to be about the average. If struck, you may possibly save yourself by taking a bush knife and whacking off, without any delay at all, the bitten hand or arm or foot. Worse still, this snake is not the peaceloving gentleman the rattler is; it seems to like to kill and it is terribly fast; a mamba has been known to chase and catch a man on horseback, strike from the ground-and kill him.
The Afrikanders seemed very casual to us a
bout the big carnivores; they are not casual about mambas.
We had lunch at a rest camp called Skukuza-tea and sandwiches served by a barefoot black giant who called me "Mahster"-a custom I was never able to get used to. Inside the kraal at Skukuza we saw two large dead trees which nevertheless appeared to be loaded with fruit. A closer look showed that the "fruit" were birds' nests, nests of the weaver bird which constructs a nest not unlike that of the Baltimore oriole. But, unlike the oriole, these birds are destructively sociable; once they pick on a tree, it is doomed; they turn it into an avian slum, building so close together that the tree dies. There is probably some deep moral lesson in this but my philosopher's license has expired.
During lunch it started to drizzle, which depressed me until Mrs. Morgan pointed out that rain would bring the game out; on a hot dry clear day the animals tended to hide in some shady cool place and wait for sundown. Sure enough, we saw more game than ever, mostly varieties of antelope, including eight of the rather scarce water buck, more kudus, roan antelope, wildebeest, eland, the lovely little duiker, and enough impala to cause traffic jams. We were rather bored with impala by now, pretty as they are, but we searched each herd carefully for zebra, as zebra have a habit of hiding themselves among impala in order to evade the lions-no luck, no zebra.
But there were plenty of baboons and swarming families of monkeys and all sorts of strange birds, including one called a bush turkey although he is not one. He is as big as a turkey but has a bill like a toucan, which makes him look as if he had put on a false face for Hallowe'en.
We came to a small natural clearing in which there was a herd which I at first mistook for gnus. Then I realized that these were bigger, thicker through the body, heavier in the horn, and most emphatically did not look like a frivolous cartoon of some other animal . . . most especially the bull of the herd did not look like a joke. He looked like Satan himself headed for a coven.
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