I sneaked a glance at Peter. He sat idly gazing over the river, where some sort of antelope had edged down for an evening drink. I suddenly wished I was more like him, so quietly confident and in harmony with his surroundings.
I pensively thought about what Peter had told me about Paul Kruger. Worried about the destruction of the region through rampant hunting and gold prospecting, he had created a preserve to save the flora and the fauna of the area. During our game drive I had discovered that not only was Peter knowledgeable about the park, but passionate about the preservation of its creatures and plants.
He accompanied me to my rondavel that evening after a light supper of warthog stew and salad in the rustic restaurant.
“So, did I pass muster today, ma’am?” he asked lightly.
“It’s been the best day of my life,” I answered simply.
“So I take it I’m allowed to remain your guide tomorrow?”
“You may accompany me anywhere,” I said breathlessly. He had changed from his khakis into dark linen trousers and a short-sleeved white shirt before dinner, and smelled of soap and South African wine.
Peter drew closer and under the moonlight, neither of us aware that a tiny muskrat watched from under a low shrub, he kissed me. It wasn’t the sanitized, highly-practiced kiss of Josh the physician, but one from a man of the bush; vibrant, alive, and pulsing with need. He pulled back and stared for a long time into my eyes until finally I gave a small nod. He didn’t hesitate as I pulled him into my small but comfortable room. He never faltered as I pulled his shirt from his trousers and struggled with my own clothes. He never complained that the bed was too small or my lips too greedy. I absorbed him like some woman parched from a long drought of love. Peter matched my every kiss and every need, and met tenderness with tenderness. Afterwards, as the moon drenched my bed in lunar caresses, we cuddled in the aftermath of authentic lovemaking. He finally drifted off to sleep, and contentment descended upon me as I lay peacefully in Africa’s arms.
I’d never expected that my concept of heaven would turn into a game park, but over the next few days, it did. Peter greeted me each morning with a smile and a kiss before suggesting a route.
I thought nothing could surpass the rustic beauty of Letaba, but after moving to the desert-like Mopani camp and peering at the huge baobab tree that stood smack-center inside the large enclosure, I wasn’t sure which I preferred. My small chalet overlooked the brimming dam and that night, having purchased wood to burn in the barbecue, or braai pit as the South Africans dubbed it, we listened to the hoarse, mooing cries of the hippo. Peter gave up the pretense of having a separate room and we pushed the two twin beds together in mutual accord.
Peter relayed that Mopani was named after the deciduous mopane tree, which can reach a height of eighteen meters. During July and August its leaves turn yellow, drooping like butterfly wings from which large, leathery pods hang in clusters. I was later to brand the mopane tree the leopard tree, since I continually searched its tall grayish-white trunk in hopes I’d spot one of the large felines draped over its branches. Unfortunately, we never ran into this most elusive of the Big Five. Peter fashioned a chart for me of the flora and fauna of the park to keep careful track of all we encountered. The rhino was our only glimpse of one of the Big Five, and Peter chided me gently about how each and every sighting was a gift when I became impatient. A gift, I reminded myself, just as each and every minute near him was a gift.
Mopani stood high above the Pioneer Dam, its bungalows made of stone and thatch, and my room was more spacious and inviting than my rondavel at Letaba. Each night we piled wood in the braai pit and reviewed the day’s sightings. On the way back to camp that first evening, we’d observed a large herd of Burchell’s zebra browsing upon dry stalks of grass. They were a marvel with their heavy bellies and plodding ways, bristled tufts of hair standing erect upon their thick, powerful necks. I still half-expected them to exemplify the traditional black-and-white zebras of children’s textbooks, but was getting used to this less familiar species.
I felt sure I always missed more animals than I detected, but never once felt let down. Peter made every spotting a joy and an education. His quiet tones instructed me and his gentle arms healed me. Once, we just sat at a nearly-dry waterhole simply to watch the scurrying antics of the common blue-helmeted Guinea fowl. We were content to watch peacefully, munching on sour apples, while countless other cars roared up, shot one exasperated glance at what I was sure they considered folly, and then exited in a cloud of fine dust, Peter’s laughter following in their oblivious wake. It was their loss. I could linger for hours, absorbing the sun like the rainbow rock skink I often noted basking upon dusty rocks by the road. Wild Africa and Peter became my lovers, filling the void that had been my own shallow life before this excursion. I never wanted to go home.
“Mandy, quick, get up and grab your camera!” hissed Peter our second evening in Mopani. Startled, I dressed quickly and tiptoed to the door. Peter remained still, dropping a warm arm over my shoulders. Each chalet at Mopani is surrounded by brush and large river boulders, and most overlook the dam. That very afternoon I had rested contentedly upon a large rock and watched a small, rosy lizard bask in the sun.
Now, near that selfsame boulder and illuminated by the flickering reach of flame, an amazing creature crouched, its eyes glowing red in the firelight. Large rounded ears, pointed muzzle, and unique black bars highlighted its burning eyes. The catlike creature hunched down, warily eyeing us as we stood motionless upon the elevated porch. It had a long-striped, buff-colored feline body spotted with black circles the size of walnuts. It meowed softly. Too large for an African wild cat, the feline possessed a long, slim tail tipped in black. I moved quickly and managed to snap three shots before the creature reacted. The ensuing flash momentarily paralyzed the beautiful, three-foot-long nocturnal predator. The bright glare dissipating, the feline disappeared into the thick shrub without a sound.
Heart thudding, I glanced up at Peter for identification.
“Our nighttime visitor was none other than the large-spotted genet. It’s a cat that hides in holes or dense trees by day and turns into the bane of rats and mice at night. She only achieves four pounds or so at maturity. You’re lucky to have seen one.”
“I am lucky,” I whispered and pulled him back into the warmth of our room and pushed-together bed. “So very, very lucky,” I repeated as he later smiled above me in the moonlight-drenched chalet.
It was with some sadness that we departed the dry camp of Mopani to head for my last camp. We meandered northward with that deep sense of regret accompanying those who know a perfect holiday is nearing an end. Three days remained before I had to catch my return flight to Cape Town, and we planned to make the most of them. Peter assured me he’d contact his sister to book a tour of the wine country and would stay with me at The Vineyard. We made no other plans. There was time for that later.
The northern camp of Shingwedzi seemed relatively old-fashioned when compared with the comfortable newness of Mopani, but nonetheless had its own special charm. It was sufficiently large, with occasional large palm trees mixed with mopanes sporadically dotting the camp. Even now, during the heart of winter, amazing rose and ivory lilies still bloomed. My small two-bed bungalow was comfortable and modern enough. Without a word, our eyes meeting across the bed, we pushed the two twins together. Here, like at Mopani and Letaba, I scribbled down every different tree, animal, and bird I was fortunate enough to spy inside the small notebook Peter had provided for me.
Within all three camps bright glossy starlings, shining metallic blue and possessing strange, orange-red eyes, jumped from branch to branch. Peter took time to identify for me some birds called by the strange name of brubru, and I marveled at the incredible long-tailed shrikes who called out peeleeo as they dipped through the thornveld, long wispy tails dangling three full body lengths below them. As always, yellow and red hornbills plagued the camp, sitting haughtily in the trees to glare evi
lly at us.
My most amazing find was a beautiful little bird called the paradise flycatcher. Its rusty orange tail dangled an extraordinarily two body lengths, and the little fellow sported a bright blue bill. I stalked it for a good fifteen minutes, aiming for the perfect shot, while it eyed me like a model does the camera. Peter lounged on the cement porch, a Castle beer in hand, grinning benevolently at my antics. I stepped up on the porch and sank down beside him.
“Tell me more about your family. I only know about your sister Elizabeth and your crazy skydiving cousin Miles.”
He draped his arm over my shoulder in his customary fashion and took a sip of his nearly-warm beer.
“Both my parents are gone now. Dad was a farmer in the north of Zimbabwe. During the ‘change of power’ our farm was overrun by ex-military cronies under Mugabe. Mum had been a teacher at the local school, and I think it was her history of unrestrained kindness to her students that saved us. Many farmers were killed during that time, but we were spared. The soldiers just sorta ‘squatted’ on our plot for a couple weeks and then politely came to the door one day and ordered us to go. We were lucky—their guns were pointed downwards. My dad was an ex-missionary who’d always been fair to our workers and Mum—Mum was a saint. So we packed up, my sister nine and me eleven, headed for the bank to withdraw our devaluing money, and slipped across the border into Zambia. We lived there for a while, but Dad never recovered. He had put his heart and soul into that farm, and with it gone, he just couldn’t start over.”
“I’m so sorry, Peter.”
A lovely gray bird with a long, squared-off tail emitted an eerie cry. Peter pointed at it grimly.
“See that bird perched in the mopane tree whose cry resembles the English words ‘go away, go away’? The Shona believe that the grey lourie is evil. All I know is that she rested upon our roof the day my father’s farm was overrun and ordered us to ‘go away, go away.’ And so we left Zimbabwe, our home. I’ve never been much fond of louries since.”
In an effort to lighten his dark mood, I asked, “What did your family do in Zambia?”
“Dad worked at the tourist bureau and Mum got a job at the local school. Dad made sure I accompanied him on all our weekend forays into the bush, and taught me everything he knew. Dad maintained such a reverence for life—human or wild—and I was about 14, just before he died, when I decided I desired to be a game guide or park ranger. I traipsed off to South Africa four years later where my cousin Miles had moved and attended Wits, learning everything I could. I acquired a dual degree in Environmental Science and African languages, being fluent in both Shona and Zulu. My sis, Elizabeth, moved first to Namibia, thinking to settle there before transferring down to Stellenbosch. She had a change of heart and obtained her hotel management degree at the university, and married a terrific South African chap.”
I gazed past the camp’s fence and witnessed a small ferret-like creature dart under the wire mesh. “And your mom?”
“Died several years ago of breast cancer. A real trooper she was, denying anything was remotely wrong with her until the very end. I joined the African Sights Tour Company, leading expeditions into Chobe, the Okavango Delta, and Vic Falls. For another two years I worked in a private reserve that borders Kruger. Now, I’m freelance and have contracts with several tour agencies that connect to European and North American clients. That’s how I was hired by your Ms. Raymond. It’s been a grand life and I have no regrets.”
“No wife or girlfriends?” I prodded.
He grinned. “Lots of girlfriends, but let’s face it, Mandy, most women don’t want to compete with the bush.”
“How old are you now?”
“Thirty-one. And your mum and family?” he asked gently.
“Just my cousin Ken and Mom now. Ken’s folks were killed by a drunk driver, and he lived with us from the age of ten. Dad passed away a few years ago from stomach cancer. My relationship with both my mother and cousin are tenuous at the best. Mom means well, but is controlling and blunt. I always sought to please her and Dad, though nothing I accomplished seemed quite adequate. Ken was always highest on their approval scale. Then I met Josh, and Mom’s opinion of me shot way up. Thought I’d proven myself by snagging a doctor. Unfortunately, Josh turned out to not be much of a catch. Mom hasn’t gotten over the disappointment of my not becoming a doctor’s wife.”
“Sounds like she and I should have a wee chat,” Peter said mildly and gave me a squeeze. “Can’t recognize what a gem she’s got, I reckon. She enjoy critters?”
“No! Mom goes into cardiac arrest if a lizard even comes within ten feet of the house.”
Peter tsk-tsked. “ I’m positive we’d get on like a house afire.”
We conversed little more until much later, after we’d sat down for a simple dinner of chicken and chips and sliced apples. From his always-overflowing ice chest, Peter pulled out my new favorite dessert from South Africa.
“I’d like to go to Crooks’ Corner if possible. I hear you can see the shores of Zimbabwe and Botswana from there.”
“And just where did you hear that?” asked Peter mildly as he forked out some milk tart.
“Some Australians at Letaba were talking about it. They said they photographed a beautiful buck named the nyala thereabouts.”
“You might glimpse one, though the wood’s quite dense up near Crooks’ Corner. However, we’ve been very lucky so far. No reason to suspect it won’t last. Crooks’ Corner it is then.” He grinned sexily across the table at me. “So, Miss Mandy, seriously; can you get your sorry bones up before 6:00 a.m. to make a good start?
I sniggered before taking another bite of the delicious tart. “I’m not the one who has trouble getting out of bed, mister!”
Chapter 8
Dawn peeked through a faint cover of clouds, the result a beautiful sunrise, all pink and salmon and luminous. We were listening to the raucous cry of a hornbill when Peter’s peripheral vision caught something large, hunched, and spotted. Running parallel to the jeep, the sloping backs of two large spotted hyenas lurched like Quasimodo. At easily one hundred and thirty pounds apiece, they’re known to have the strongest jaws of any mammal their size. The bigger one glanced behind him, his large ears protruding nerdishly from a vicious face, and Peter braked the jeep hard as I whipped my camera out, unfortunately catching only a shot of his retreating behind. The other, loping beside his comrade, grinned. His large ears and the orange tuft crowning his head made him resemble some sort of rebellious teenager.
“Another great butt shot,” observed Peter before I punched him. We had made a credible start, managing to get out of bed at 5:45 to head for the gate. It was already turning warm. I had noticed the temperature shift after leaving Mopani camp. It was hotter and more humid this far north; consequently I removed my gray sweatshirt and stuffed it into my knapsack, shoving the over-packed bag onto the back seat.
We passed through sandstone hills and mopane plains, Peter noting that while many of the trees were still tinted green this late August, others appeared on the verge of death, the grass surrounding their gray tree trunks brown and short under the wide turquoise bowl of sky stretching overhead. Peter stated it hadn’t rained in a good sixteen weeks and the grass had subsequently withered, turning a pale dusty brown.
We crawled at a mere twenty kilometers an hour though the signs permitted fifty, pausing for nearly every bird, bug, and beast. My first real spotting was of a cluster of yellow hornbills picking at a huge pile of dung on the main road. As we paused to watch them, Peter pointed to a large, dark beetle rolling a hefty glob of dung, three times his size, across the road. Occasionally overwhelmed, he twice flipped over the top of the ball. The stalwart dung beetle remained undaunted, keeping to his stinky but apparently necessary mission.
Flies swirled around the huge dung pile. Judging from the clod’s giant proportions, it could only have originated from an elephant. The droppings consisted of coarse, undigested bits of twigs and grass, and its freshness
filling me with hope that we’d soon run into the large herbivore. As Peter slowly cruised the vacant dirt road, a lovely bird sat perched upon the dead branches of a lightning-struck tree. Its throat was a deep baby-pink; its soft breast resembled a vest of lovely purple encased by turquoise wings. Bright dark eyes and a stately head mistrusted us on sight, and the timid bird flitted away without a sound.
“That’s the photogenic lilac-breasted roller, a common subject of nearly every South African nature calendar,” said Peter.
“I don’t want to buy the calendar. I just want the blasted thing to sit still long enough for a decent shot.”
Peter smiled at me lazily, examining me as I angled for the best shot.
“Most women resemble that bird you know.”
“Oh?”
Peter sat comfortably in the driver’s seat as he scanned the bush. “All pretty-like, but so quick to flit to safety the moment they get a whiff of something remotely unsafe or unfamiliar.”
I analyzed him. “Such as you?”
“Well, I’m not exactly considered the greatest catch—living this unstable lifestyle and all.”
I lowered my camera and slowly allowed my eyes to savor his lean, tanned face and trim, athletic body. “Stability is much overrated. And, you don’t see me flitting away do you?”
“No. I don’t.”
Heart of Africa Page 6