I spotted the small aircraft outside the airport’s huge windows and was suddenly filled with trepidation. A mere Jetstream—the blasted thing only held twenty-nine seats! Swallowing nervously, I boarded the compact plane and sank tentatively into my gray seat next to an obese black man whose eyes were already shut. No matter how I maneuvered, I couldn’t distance myself from him and ended up sitting rigidly, my personal space cruelly violated as the last remnants of my self-confidence were vanquished.
The ensuing flight proved a nightmare as the toy plane bounced and groaned. The oblivious flight attendant handed out peanuts and soft drinks, never once spilling a drop during all the turbulence. The deafening throb of the twin propellers made it impossible to hold a conversation, much less think. I pretended to doze in my seat, squirreled away as far as I could manage from my sleeping neighbor, whose mouth now hung open. He snored gustily, though fortunately the din of the airplane motors drowned out the majority of his snorts.
Nearly two miserable hours later, after dosing myself with three antacid tablets and one of my migraine pills, the plane swung steeply downward. Through the small porthole I noted that the runway seemed far too short and gasped in horror. My seatmate snored on as I mentally measured the airstrip. No more than a thousand meters long or so, the small plane shuddered and lost altitude. Fiendish air currents battered the aircraft as its landing gear noisily descended.
I whispered a fervent prayer and prepared to die. Stomach in knots, I gripped the armrests until my knuckles turned white. The rotund gentleman next to me gave a loud snort as the plane touched earth and bounced twice.
“Are we there?” he mumbled groggily.
I was too frightened to do more than nod as the plane skidded to a stop. The perky flight attendant helped me gather up my things. Still shaky, I disembarked and peered about me.
The Phalaborwa airfield hosted a small but comfortable terminal and within minutes I’d retrieved my luggage (there were some advantages to small planes) and pondered my next move. My white shirt hopelessly creased and sweaty, I scanned the small line of rental car agencies. Surprisingly, all the major names were represented: National, Hertz, Eurocar, and Avis. Heading toward the latter agency, I was rewarded when a bored young African woman handed me the jeep’s key within a matter of minutes.
“An automatic, as you requested.”
“Thanks. I’m spending the night at Letaba camp. Which way do I proceed?” I asked.
“Leave the airport and turn left. The main road runs right into the Phalaborwa Gate. Once inside, the signs will direct you to Letaba rest camp.”
This sounded encouraging. “So it’s just a few minutes away?”
The clerk gave an indolent shrug. “The gate is close, but once inside Kruger it’s a bit of a ways to Letaba. I must warn you the road is bad in some places.” She passed me an area map and focused upon the next customer; a thin, washed-out man wearing thick glasses. I’d been dismissed.
Tentatively I headed for the small parking lot and handed my car claim tag to a skinny black man in a blue jumpsuit. He pointed a finger at a sleek 4 x 4. The jeep gleamed jungle green, and came equipped with comfortable seats and a removable top for better game viewing. The languid attendant hauled my luggage into the spacious rear and showed me how to remove the roof before flashing me a lazy thumbs-up send off. Remembering my trial run in Cape Town, and chanting the little song of stay left; look right, I departed the minuscule airport for my grand safari. Over the next ninety minutes I spent my time alternating between avoiding potholes, lagging behind smoking trucks, and gazing amazed at the countless metal shacks situated just off the road.
A wire fence, decorated in breeze-filled plastic trash bags, surrounded a makeshift soccer field where shoeless ebony youths kicked at a dilapidated soccer ball. A large trash heap, attended by sturdy goats and a rooting pig, stood near a water pump where a long line of skinny girls in outgrown faded dresses waited for a turn. An old man leaning on a cane and dressed in a drab brown suit surveyed the road. A brand-new Toyota Land Cruiser sailed past my slower jeep, packed with a lively white family obviously heading for Kruger Park.
I passed a billboard decorated with the red curved and crossed ribbon symbolizing the fight against AIDS and a scrawny child of about five clad in a dirty pink dress, kicking at the dirt before waving energetically at me. I shyly waved back before gripping the steering wheel more tightly. Where, oh where was the gate?
By the time I made it to the Phalaborwa Gate, I felt exhausted and irritable. I’d expected Letaba to be close, but realized I still had a great distance to continue to reach my lodgings. To top it off, I had headache that was threatening to transform into a full-fledged migraine. I left the rental vehicle to pay the park entrance fee. Here the grounds, though roughly landscaped, were well-maintained. I was surprised when the smiling park attendant handed me a large paper bag.
“No plastic bags allowed in the park, ma’am.” The young man grinned, a wide gap situated charmingly between his front teeth. His tag indicated the comforting name of Charles. He sold me a detailed map, stating, “Not to worry, ma’am. Letaba is due east on the H-9. Just follow the signs. You’ll pass through the Rhidorda Pan, where one often sights giraffe and elephant.”
My pulse quickened as I followed a white Mazda onto the tarred road. I had just handed the entry form to the green-uniformed guard, when I gasped and pointed out the window. There, a large, graceful herd of brown and white buck, a few sporting twisted black horns, grazed tranquilly near the entrance.
The guard chuckled. “Impala, miss. There are thousands in the park. See their bottoms?”
I peered intently. A telltale M decorated each buck near its white, tucked tail.
“They’re the McDonald’s of the park. Everything wants a taste of those juicy hindquarters.” I laughed merrily with him before heading toward my final destination of the day, my headache subsiding somewhat.
It was the afternoon of the giraffe as I set out for Letaba on the main road. My first glimpse of the world’s tallest mammal came through the trees, where a stately head bobbed between thorny branches as it loped along. Too distant for a good photo, I parked the jeep so I could watch my first real sighting lurch out of view. Later, at a water hole, three of the large creatures drank, spreading their long legs wide apart so they could maneuver their oversized necks close enough to lap up the water. I just couldn’t get enough of the amazing creatures. A few impala wandered between them, eyes briskly alert before dropping their lovely heads to drink. Large ground birds, speckled black and white, scurried between them to drink and chatter nosily. Within an hour at Kruger, I’d snapped over fifty photos.
I glimpsed little more the rest of the afternoon until noting the oddest tree I’d ever run across. Its monstrous squat trunk reached root-like tentacles toward the cobalt sky. I thumbed furiously through my guide book, making the victorious identification. It was the famous baobab, called the upside-down tree by locals. Often several thousand years old, during winter the baobab’s leafless branches hover above its enormous trunk, gleaming an eerie gray-white in the bright sunlight. Impossible to miss, the tree’s majestic starkness is nearly indescribable.
I took at least a dozen shots from every angle with the newly initiated Nikon, hoping to obtain one decent shot of the twenty-five meter high tree to blow up and frame for my new, bare-walled condo. Nearby, I noted an area blackened by brush fire, the haphazard path of flame having randomly missed several thorny trees while totally destroying others. I’d read on my initial flight to Cape Town about the veldt fires that redistributed the nutrients back into the parched earth during the winter. Their merciless flames enabled the wild grasses and flowers to spring forth with renewed life during the rainy season that started in October.
I traveled no faster than fifty kilometers an hour that afternoon and finally arrived at Letaba tired but relaxed, having for once thoroughly enjoyed driving.
Entering the large reception hall, I marveled at the
handsome place and discovered the camp’s name meant “river of sand” in Sotho, one of the many South African languages. Spectacularly situated above the sweeping, wide bends of the Letaba River, it overlooked a huge flood plain where unafraid animals drank and grazed upon the rich grass bordering the shallow water. After being allotted a small two-bed rondavel with a quaint thatched roof, I lugged my maroon bag to the small room overlooking the river. I halted, amazed. Only ten yards from my door, a small, sturdy buck lifted soft eyes to observe me. Fearless, it chewed on a sprig of bright grass hanging from its lips like a thin vegan cigarette.
The creature was lovely beyond measure with broad ears, bright, dark eyes, and a smattering of white spots dappling a lovely brown coat. Dainty black hoofs stepped gingerly over the green grass, artificially watered by a long length of black hose. I remained transfixed for several minutes until the unperturbed buck moved away. Later I discovered a huge glass information board inside the large, grassy area, discussing the prevalence of bushbuck inside the Letaba rest camp. Bushbuck were allowed to wander the enclosed grounds freely, though only females and their young are allotted this privilege. The bushbuck males were so reputedly fierce, they’d been known to attack lions and often emerge victorious, impaling the predator with their short, sharp horns.
Huge trees of Natal mahogany and exotic marula dotted the well-maintained lawn. The camp buzzed with bright yellow and black weaver birds busily snatching grass so they could intricately weave their basket-shaped nests. Iridescent blue-black starlings made my late afternoon snack of a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich a supreme pleasure as the cheeky birds tried to snatch crumbs off nearby tables. The self-service restaurant overlooked the immense river, delivering an unblemished view of more grazing impala, which were later joined by black-and brown-striped zebra. Confused, I flipped through my guide book, stunned that these South African zebra were nothing similar to the ones I’d ogled while visiting the zoo as a child. Even more distant, a large herd of wildebeest lazily made their way downriver. Lunch at the hospital cafeteria had never been like this!
Later, I returned to the reception hall to explore Letaba’s elephant museum, which I’d noticed upon my arrival. Inside, huge tusks and skulls of the Magnificent Seven—elephants so named because of the immense size of their tusks—filled the hall. One display in particular fascinated me. The elephant Shawu had the longest tusks ever reported in the park. Each tusk measured over nine feet in length and hung on the white-washed walls in quiet dignity. Hopefully, I would be able to view some descendants of these large “tuskers” for myself over the next few days.
“Having a good time?” drawled a familiar cultured South African voice.
I whirled and there stood Peter Leigh, once again dressed in his safari khakis and now sporting a wide-brimmed hat.
“What are you doing here?” I hissed.
He shrugged. “Well, today I’m holidaying, though I’m supposed to meet a client here tomorrow. I often work in the park, remember. This museum is one of my favorites. Fancy running into you, though, Miss Phillips.”
A family of Japanese tourists pushed by me, oblivious to my mounting anger.
“And you just happened to land in the very same camp, in the very same museum in the whole of Kruger Park, as me?”
“Strange, isn’t it?” He nonchalantly turned away from my angry eyes and pointed at the sign below the huge tusks. “This is Shawu—an amazing tusker. It was a real shame when he died. You know that elephants have six sets of teeth and after they wear down the last one, they slowly starve to death.”
“You need to get away from me,” I ground out between clenched teeth.
“Ach, shame. Look Mandy, I’m sorry about last night. My sister swears I have an uncanny knack of saying just the wrong thing at the wrong time. My sincere apologies. I planned on telling you I was flying straight up to Letaba. Last night I was truly delighted to learn you were headed to the same camp as me. Please, please forgive my rudeness.”
But I had already turned away, heading for the glass doors of the small museum. Peter Leigh caught up with me and gently took my arm to stop me exiting the small museum. His voice shook with emotion. “Alright, Mandy, you have to listen to me. I have a confession to make. I’m sure this is going to come as a bit of a shock to you, but you see, I’m actually your hired guide.”
Flabbergasted, I stared blankly at him before sputtering, “Is that supposed to be some sort of pick-up line?”
“No, it’s the God’s honest truth.” Peter fished inside his back pocket and handed me a creased paper. The document was an order form from Azure Travel.
I scanned the paper in disbelief. “The travel agency hired you? My agency from Orlando, Florida?
“Yes, via a Ms. Raymond, actually. It seems that the price she quoted you was guide-inclusive. It’s clear she neglected to tell you that fact. I figured that out when you didn’t recognize my name when I introduced myself to you last night at the hotel. You’re the client I’m supposed to meet tomorrow.”
“I remember very well my conversation with Ms. Raymond about the trip,” I said indignantly, “and I can guarantee she mentioned nothing about my tour being ‘guide inclusive.’”
Peter Leigh shrugged. “Then I guess you’re just lucky she caught the mistake in time. Look, Mandy, the bottom line is that Kruger isn’t a great place to be traveling alone. The park is the size of your state of Massachusetts and there are tons of twisty dirt roads, with hours between camps and toilet facilities. Have you thought about what you’d do if you got a flat, ran out of petro, or were charged by one of these big fellas here? There are dangers lurking in a wild place like this that most city folk can’t fathom. It’s better to have a guide if you’re on your own. Particularly a pretty woman like you. Trust me.”
His final words caught me off guard and I experienced that insistent telltale blush, exposing my deep-seated insecurities again. Dumbfounded, I was literally rendered speechless.
He continued, sensing my acute embarrassment. “I recognize that you really want to travel alone, but I’d feel much more at ease about it all if you’d just allow me to accompany you on your drive tomorrow. I’m used to driving a jeep, which I know was part of your tour package, and my assuming the wheel would enable you to enjoy the splendors of the park. I’ve been doing tours for nearly ten years and I’ll not only give you insights on the flora and fauna inhabiting Kruger, but might even enable you to the catch the Big Five.”
“The Big Five?” The question was out of my mouth before I could stop myself.
“Those are the big animals considered most dangerous for hunters. They’re the lion, leopard, elephant, rhino, and Cape buffalo. Most visitors to the park pray they will run across a couple of them, though frankly, there are others creatures vastly more interesting.”
I fidgeted as he spoke. The insulted part of me longed to tell the arrogant Zimbabwean to get lost, but the other, the more curious and vulnerable part, hankered to learn more about this incredible wilderness. And best yet, he would drive. What propelled me to agree, to this day I’ll never fathom.
“The gate opens at 6:00 a.m.,” I said sharply. “I’ll meet you at the parking lot outside of the reception area near my jeep. You have one day to prove to me that you aren’t wasting my precious holiday, Mr. Leigh.”
“I’ll be there.” His words drifted after my rapidly departing figure. I couldn’t flee fast enough.
One of the beauties of Letaba, I later discovered that chilly evening, were the benches overlooking the river. It was there in the fading light of the cooling evening that I glimpsed my first elephant. The massive herbivore sauntered down the sloping bank and drank gustily from the slow-flowing river. I watched the big fellow for over twenty minutes as the tusker took his own sweet time to drink, forage, and then drink again. By the time he lumbered back up the embankment, his huge footsteps deeply indenting the sand, the sun had finally disappeared. The sky slowly filled with an array of shining stars so clear a
nd unblemished, it took my breath away.
I remained profoundly disturbed by the events of that afternoon. Ever since my encounter with Peter Leigh in the museum, I’d racked my brains about all my conversations with Azure Travel’s agent. Then it hit me. Ms. Raymond had been witness to Josh’s and my less-than-dignified encounter regarding our breakup. She had then hurriedly set me up on a trip to a country whose crime rate was notorious. It was likely Ms. Raymond had added on the services of a guide in belated penitence. Frankly, it didn’t matter why Peter Leigh had intruded upon my trip; what mattered was how I handled it as the new, independent Mandy. Would my quest to become a more competent woman suffer from having a private tour guide? I finally concluded that giving Peter Leigh one day to prove himself a reliable guide might be the right course. Somewhat soothed by my choice, I contemplated dinner.
I ventured late that night into the restaurant and enjoyed a casserole of kudu stew, tasty bright orange butternut, and a delicious malva pudding for dessert. I tried an unfamiliar drink called Appletizer and found it refreshing and tasty as I unashamedly eavesdropped on the conversation of some loud and boisterous Australians who’d had a very productive day. In an accent impossible to misplace, they boasted of lucky and unexpected sightings. I listened intently, memorizing their references to locations in hopes that those selfsame animals would present themselves to me over the next few days.
“That cheetah,” said a balding, muscular man who vaguely reminded me of Steve Irwin, “didn’t have a scrap of fear!”
His mate, lanky and sandy-haired with a bristly three-day growth of beard, responded enthusiastically. “Did you see how he leaped right up onto the road marker, the sun directly behind him? It was a spectacular shot—one in a million.”
“I just hope you focused the camera, Jeff,” laughed a pixie-haired woman who might have been his girlfriend or wife. Tanned and slim, she wore shorts even at dinner.
Heart of Africa Page 4