“We are outside the reserve area but there are no fences and someone forgot to tell the elephant where the boundary is,” Edison joked with a throaty laugh.
“There are fifty thousand elephants just in the twelve thousand square kilometers of Chobe National Park alone. Elephants have a lifespan similar to that of humans, but in Africa they actually outlive many of the people. The average lifespan of a male human being is forty; for an elephant, it’s sixty to seventy years. You must be careful of them; just about every family I know has lost one of its members as a result of being trampled, tossed, or impaled.”
Once again, it brought me back to my sad truth. Although I would rather die doing something adventurous rather than languishing in a hospital bed, being trampled by an elephant wasn’t ideal. I found it oddly comforting to know, however, that if I were an African male, I would have only had two more years to live anyway. I was nearing the end of my lifespan by African standards. There is a plethora of ways that our frail lives could end. It could happen at any moment of any day. I felt strangely fortunate at that moment, that I had some insight into my own timeline.
Edison saw something ahead and asked the driver to pull over once again. Walking along the road was a menacing black bird reminiscent of a scaled-down version of a prehistoric pterodactyl. The winged monster stood at least three feet tall with a red face and throat to contrast his ebony feathers. The sight unnerved the bus driver, even more so when Edison began to feed us information on the intimidating creature.
“That is a ground hornbill, very unusual to see. The terror you see on our bus driver’s face is because they are associated with witchcraft. Amari is one of the Maasai people. They believe that if a ground hornbill walks into your homestead or lands on your roof, someone is going to die. The people will relocate right away and never return.”
I was being stalked by the soothsayers of nature, I thought. First the owl in Sedona, and now the demonic dinosaur creature. My lack of a camera was a blessing in the face of the bird of death.
“Do you eat them?” Carol asked.
Edison looked at her in disbelief.
“No, they are bad luck; we are afraid of them.”
That was to be the second of countless idiotic questions that were asked by Carol.
We passed by a flatbed, fenced-in truck crammed with people, a goat, and a few chickens.
“That is our public transportation,” Edison explained. “It’s called a chicken bus.”
I laughed to myself as I imagined the group of us football-carrying Carol and dumping her in with the goats and chickens.
We arrived at the lodge three hours later—two of which I’d spent wishing Carol had an “off” switch, or at least a mute button. The lodge was completely isolated in the trees up a narrow, winding road. It was not at all like Mufasa’s Pride Rock, not a dry, brushy plain. It was green, lush, and set above a river with bathing elephants and chimpanzees playing in the nearby trees. I scanned the fairytale setting, smack in the middle of the animals’ playground, in wonderment and disbelief. I leaned against a balcony and just marinated in my own awe.
Carol’s shriek ripped me out of my reverie.
“What about me?!” she cried.
I turned around to find the two couples being escorted to two of the only four tented guest cabins. Terror struck my very soul at the thought of being forced to bunk with Carol. I was convinced that she never stopped talking, even in her sleep, and figured I might die just having to listen to her shrill, ever-present voice. I found myself hoping for a moment that the cancer might take me first.
Then a miracle happened. Perhaps Sister Constance’s prayers for me had worked some magic. They called for Carol next, and to my surprise, did not call for me. Clifford and I looked at one another; one cabin to go, and we were the only ones left. We shook our heads in unison. It couldn’t be possible that they would have the two of us bunk together, but right then it seemed to me that Clifford would still make for a better bunkmate than Carol.
They called for Clifford, and off he trotted with another one of the staff, leaving me by myself. I walked back over to the balcony and conjured an image of myself roughing it in the wild, making myself one with the environment, submerged in the circle of life until I became part of the grass. But it was not to be. I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to find a young, pregnant African girl standing behind me.
“Anaastayzia?” she asked with terrible mispronunciation.
“Call me Stacia.”
“I am Raashida. I will take you to your room.”
I shrugged and followed behind her down an elevated wooden, planked path in the opposite direction of the other cabins. Raashida motioned for me enter a cabin, set off by itself, that was twice the size as the others.
“Why is my cabin so much larger?”
“This is the owner’s cabin. He said you are a friend of his? Yes?”
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
We were friends, I supposed—friends who barely knew each other and who had sucked face once. I found myself lost again in the memory of that magical evening, his soft lips mingling with mine. I suddenly felt so alone. Why did I find myself spending my last days with strangers on the African plains, when I could have spent them in Wilbur’s amazing arms?
Raashida showed me where all of the lights were, as well as some bug repellent, a flashlight, and an air horn for emergencies. I stopped to contemplate what sorts of emergencies might arise: animal attacks, strange men climbing into the window, Carol sleepwalking…
The cabin was a wooden structure with canvas “windows” and doors. It had two bedrooms with elegant wooden furniture and plush bedding, a hardwood floor, running hot and cold water, and electricity that ran on a generator during daylight hours. There were insect nets surrounding the beds, but I had yet to see an actual insect—a situation that would rectify itself later that night.
Suddenly, I heard a horn blow.
“Edison is calling you for the game drive,” Raashida said.
It amazed me that I’d seen so much already and had yet to actually go in search of game. Edison met us with a nine-seat, open-sided off-road vehicle. The couples piled into the front rows, leaving me sandwiched in the back between Carol and Clifford. As we began to bump along the road, Edison exclaimed, “African massage!” to everyone’s pleasure.
Edison stopped and hung his head out of the vehicle to examine the ground. As it turned out, Edison was a talented tracker.
“Leopard tracks,” he announced. “Probably from last night.”
Leopards, I would learn, were the most elusive of all the African mammals.
While searching in vain for the leopards, we came upon a herd of impala. The “M” shaped markings on their little antelope rumps, combined with the facts that they are large in numbers and are at bottom of the food chain, led Edison to dub them the “McDonalds” of the African bush. Thinking of the food chain reminded me of the circle of life, which in turn, reminded me of The Lion King. I had to smile. This was now the world I inhabited.
Clifford, the self-anointed comedian, called the impala “low-rent Chevrolet products” every time we saw them, which was often. Impalas have a system by which they all give birth at once, thus flooding the market, making it more difficult for predators to reduce their numbers. They can actually delay giving birth for up to a month if the conditions are too harsh. They also have a gland that will secrete a scent to alert other impalas when predators are near. The complex biological technology in these particular “Chevrolet products” made me wonder how they wound up at the bottom of the food chain.
We drove further, passing many of the splendid baobab trees in the area. Botswana is littered with these trees, with their swollen trunks designed to store water, and their branches that resemble upturned roots. Legend has it that the baobab, being one of the earliest trees to exist, became jealous of the other trees that arose afterward. First, he became jealous of the slender palm. Then he was envious that he had
no flowers like a flame tree. Lastly, he coveted the fruit of the fig tree. The gods became so angry with the baobab’s continuous whining, that they plucked him up out of the ground, and shoved him back into the earth upside down just to shut him up. The baobab got his revenge on the gods by continuing to survive thousands of years under the harshest of conditions.
Through the trees, up in the distance, we spotted the heads of five giraffe. They were the most amazing, majestic creatures I had ever seen, and so much taller than I had imagined. As we drove in to get a closer look, they remained completely unaffected by our presence. Inside Chobe National Park they were accustomed to spectators and felt secure that they were not in danger. Edison explained that the only way to tell the difference between male and female giraffes—aside from looking under their skirts—was to examine their horns. Where the females had little hair tufts, the males did not because they had worn them off playing and fighting. All of them had the most beautiful big, brown, lashy eyes. They reminded me of Wilbur.
More and more, there wasn’t much that didn’t remind me of Wilbur: water, hiking, driving, eating, breathing. Never before had someone made such a spectacular impression on me in such a short a period of time. But, other than my brief digression, I’d never doubted that I had done the right thing by leaving, but still, I missed him. The giraffes, although incredibly beautiful, had no interest in keeping me warm at night.
If the giraffe was Wilbur’s animal counterpart, I wondered what mine was. Carol was clearly a Siberian husky/chipmunk mix; Clifford had a definite horse face. I supposed I would be considered a Siamese cat, with my dark face and blue eyes.
We were all fairly exhausted and satisfied with the number of animals we had seen on our first of what would turn into many game drives. When we arrived back at the camp, there were at least ten staff members smiling and singing an African song to us—ten people to cater to the seven of us. The unemployment rate is Botswana is quite high, so they were happy to have jobs, but nevertheless, I felt guilty being lavished with that much attention.
We were given a few moments to freshen up before dinner, so I sauntered wearily back to my cabin. I walked down the wooden path and when I opened the door, I almost fainted at what I saw before me. Wilbur was sitting on the bed.
CHAPTER 23
I didn’t know what to do. My heart was beating in my throat, and my face was on fire. I felt like I was glowing from excitement. The previous physical distance between Wilbur and I hadn’t helped to curb my feelings for him one bit. I had been daydreaming of his lips and his hair and trying to reconfigure his face in my mind. And suddenly, there he was, sitting right in front of me in all his masculine splendor.
“I know; I shouldn’t have come, but I really wanted to see you,” Wilbur said softly as he peered at me motionlessly from his spot on the bed.
“Shouldn’t have come?” I replied in astonishment.
Then it hit me; my previous frightening behavior had made the poor man feel as though he wasn’t welcome in his own place. I couldn’t help it; I leaped on top of him and gave him a strangulating hug.
“You’re in Africa!” I cried as I knocked him down onto the bed with the velocity of my leap.
“Yes, I am,” he replied, muffled by my would-be breasts.
“When did you get here?” I asked.
“Just about an hour ago.”
I slid off of his lap, and sat next to him on the bed. My trembling legs were still lying atop his. Our eyes met.
“You know, if you try to escape from me here, you’ll get eaten, right?” Wilbur asked.
“The animals of Africa will finish the job the Arizona ones couldn’t pull off?” I retorted with a smirk, then kissed him despite my better judgment. I completely lost control. My lips had some sort of gravitational pull toward his face every time my eyes met his.
“I have to say, this is not the reaction I expected,” he gasped when we finally came up for air. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna bunk with Edison, so you’ll have lots of space.”
It was for the best, I knew, but how could I evict him from his own place? That was the way I rationalized it, anyway.
“Don’t be silly, there’s plenty of room in here.”
Wilbur paused for a moment before he replied, “All right—if you’re okay with it.”
I looked back at the large mosquito-netted bed and silently debated whether I could trust him—or myself.
Fortunately, Wilbur cut the awkward tension.
“We should be going to dinner,” he said, leading the way toward the door.
We were about to walk out when he grabbed my arm, startling me. I flashed back to my last argument with Evan. I couldn’t even remember what it was about, but Evan had grabbed my arm hard in an attempt to restrain me when I’d tried to walk away from him. I lurched back from Wilbur and shook him off.
“I’m sorry, Stacia,” he said, coupled with a look of alarm. “I was just going to ask you not to tell any of the other guests who I am. I just want to be one of the crowd.”
I felt ridiculous. In reality, he had grabbed my arm quite gently.
“All right,” I agreed, nodding apologetically while considering how different a man Wilbur was from Evan.
At this point, Evan would have been bragging to anyone who would listen about owning a place as incredible as Wilbur’s African woodland utopia.
As we walked back down the walkway, I grabbed Wilbur’s hand to make up for my skittish behavior. We approached a thatched pergola above a formal dining table, where we joined the rest of the travelers and the staff.
“Where did you come from?” Carol spat in Wilbur’s direction.
Before he had a chance to respond, Carol’s glare fell upon me.
“I thought you said you were traveling alone?” she queried in her most accusatory tone.
They were the first rational questions she had uttered since I met her.
“I flew in to surprise her,” Wilbur replied when finally given the chance.
He looked to me for confirmation while the staff remained silent.
I nodded and smiled.
“I was very surprised.”
I had hoped to divulge as little personal information to my traveling companions as possible. But, my having what appeared to be a mysterious boyfriend who suddenly appeared in Africa out of nowhere was bound to draw some questions. I knew that it was tearing Carol up inside: all of the delicious intrigue. My only option was to embellish, so embellish is what I intended to do.
“Is this your husband? Boyfriend?” Carol inquired in a manner that suggested she might have a chance with him herself, despite their more than thirty-year age gap.
“Actually, we’re sort of newly dating,” Wilbur volunteered. “We haven’t really established any specific rules or labels yet.”
It was an honest choice of words. I liked it. His words also eliminated the need for me to utter any. No embellishing necessary.
“That was brave a’ you, son—jus’ showin’ up like that,” Clifford chimed in with a laugh. “Maybe she don’t even want you here!”
Wilbur looked embarrassed, especially after my violent shake off. I felt compelled to reassure him.
“Wilbur arranged this whole trip for me. Showing up himself, that was a great surprise,” I said, smiling at Wilbur.
At least, for once, I wasn’t the one who needed reassurance. As Wilbur’s gaze met mine, I felt the gravitational force of his lips once again, but then remembered the large table full of spectators. Edison, with precise timing, tapped his glass with a spoon to get everyone’s attention, and in unison, we turned toward him.
“Welcome, everyone, to Botswana. I would like each of you to tell us a little bit about why you wanted to come to Africa.”
The couples began the exercise. David and Mary explained how they’d been studying all things Africa for ten years. They had researched the many different cultures in southern Africa. They’d learned about the food, the education, and the economy, and
were eager to put their knowledge into action.
John and Sally were staunch environmentalists and animal-rights activists who wanted to see the conservation efforts going on in Africa.
Both couples’ reasons were more lofty and pretentious than mine.
Clifford stated that he had read all of Wilbur Smith’s sixteenth- and seventeenth-century-based intrigue novels that are set in Africa, and that they had piqued his interest. He scored a point in my book for that one. He seemed more like the type who came to Africa because he wanted to wrestle a lion. I quickly asked to borrow a copy of one of his books.
Then it was my turn. I scoured my brain for a legitimate-sounding reason that wouldn’t reveal me to be the buffoon that I was. But I came up with nothing other than the truth. All eyes were on me.
“Two days ago, I was in Florence watching The Lion King. When I heard Mufasa explain the circle of life to Simba, I decided that I had to see the animals for myself.”
The guests guffawed while the staff exchanged looks of confusion. I don’t think they were laughing at my ridiculous reasoning; they thought I couldn’t possibly be serious.
Wilbur interrupted the laughter.
“I’m Wilbur, and…uh…I just came to see her.”
The staff chuckled along with the guests this time. Obviously, they were in on Wilbur’s request to remain anonymous.
When Carol’s turn came, she simply dittoed my desire to see the animals. The Bobbsey Twins couples rolled their eyes at her, unable to control their contempt.
There was a vast array of food served buffet style. There was pasta, bread, chicken, beef, fruits, vegetables, soups, cakes, and pies, and yet they had no formal kitchen. The staff had created mountains of scrumptious food in the remotest of areas using the basic element of fire.
Midway through dinner, an insect the size of a B-52 bomber plunged into Clifford’s glass of water, and began splashing around for its life. Clifford took out his enormous camera and began to fiddle with the lens, all while the insect was writhing around, quickly drowning in his drink. Edison insisted on saving it before Clifford could snap his shot, irritating Clifford tremendously. Edison reached into the glass and, as if it were a piece of fine china, ever so gently released the grotesque monstrosity, otherwise known as a dung beetle.
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