My breath caught and I knew that something between us had altered.
“So,” he drawled. “Up for more history this early morning, Mandy?”
“Go ahead, professor.”
“As you know, over-hunting had nearly wiped out all the big game in the late nineteenth century, so then-president Paul Kruger decided to proclaim the areas between the Sabie and Crocodile Rivers as a game park, dubbing it the Sabie Reserve. After the Anglo-Boer War, two to three thousand indigenous people were forcibly relocated as the park expanded. The last removal of the Makuleke people ended in 1969, allowing Kruger Park to evolve into the world’s largest game park. The dispute regarding the rights of the native people and the necessity of preserving habitat for the indigenous creatures still rages today. It’s a never-ending battle, Mandy. I can’t make up my mind who’s right. Certainly the animals and plants of this region are important, but so are the rights of the misplaced indigenous people. It’s a tough call.”
“Don’t you feel that eco-tourism might be the best and only way to help this country curb South Africa’s obvious poverty?” I asked. “Certainly these beautiful birds and animals only benefit from tourists like me.”
He smiled. “I’d have to agree. But keeping nature in perfect balance has always got to be the aim. Hey, just there, it’s the turnoff for Crooks’ Corner.”
As we wound through the quiet dirt roads heading north toward Crooks’ Corner, I spotted a large female kudu, her broad white stripes helping her blend into the dense woodland. Her majestic mate, his curved horns surely a meter long, chewed on a sprig of grass as he stepped into the open. After a dozen shots we moved slowly onwards again, the wind brushing our faces. Koppie Charaxes butterflies, with thin swallow-tail extensions on their blue-tipped hind wings, danced upon white flowers near the road. In one place where a large, muddy puddle of water seeped gradually onto the road, hundreds of the sunflower-colored butterflies hovered, dipping stylishly into the water before drifting away.
It was with a profound sense of satisfaction that we pulled into Crooks’ Corner, situated at the junction of the Limpopo and smaller Luvuvhu River. During the heart of the dry season (the rains wouldn’t come again until October), the wide river drifted slowly, only one to two feet high at its deepest point. The roads had remained nearly vacant all morning. We had only passed one game ranger’s forest-green vehicle and a small yellow Citi Golf, whose two elderly inhabitants shot us a merry wave.
A musty scent filled the car’s interior as the road, hedged in jungle-like trees, opened toward the sandy junction. Birds in the distance alternately cooed, whistled, and warbled, and Peter pointed out the continual hoot of baboons. A leopard tortoise crossed the dirt road slowly; the beautiful pattern upon its yellowish-brown back dubbing it appropriately.
The river stretched wide and far. In the distance, the long neck of a giraffe peeked above the jungle in Mozambique. It was blissfully peaceful and we relaxed with the windows rolled down, contentedly listening to the sounds of the bush and holding hands.
“So here we are, Mandy, at Crooks’ Corner. Did you do your homework?”
“I did indeed, sir.”
“Alright, young lady, why is it called Crooks’ Corner? And no cheating and looking at the information on that stone marker.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I responded, turning my back to the plaque. “This was literally a safe haven for crooks in the 1900s. It didn’t matter if you were poacher, gun runner, or killer; the place was safe because you could just dash across the river to avoid the law from the country you were currently in. The coolest thing is that Zimbabwe and Mozambique are just over there.”
“Quite right,” said Peter, smiling. “It doesn’t get the traffic it deserves for being such a famous spot, since it’s rather remote. The nearest picnic spot is about ten kilometers away at Pafuri, and you saw how long it took to get here from our own camp. There’s an incredible number of birds about. There goes a river warbler. Beautiful, isn’t he?”
He was. We both sat contentedly for nearly fifteen minutes, Peter occasionally pointing out a bird species while we listened to the hippos splashing in the river.
Peter finally stirred and gave a lopsided grin. “Well Mandy, I believe nature calls. It’s fairly open here, so I should be safe.”
I smiled. Peter had marked his territory often during the trip. Sometimes he took his rifle, but today, because of the openness of the clearing, he left it in the rear of the jeep—though his hunter’s knife remained securely fastened to his belt. “Back in a few minutes,” he said and gave me a sly wink as he tweaked his safari hat at me.
Peter hadn’t been gone more than a couple when a white bakkie, the South African term for a van, pulled up and an African tourist stepped outside to view the low river. I had scooted over onto the driver’s side and was attempting to focus my binoculars upon a large bird foraging in the shallow water. It possessed long yellow legs, a curved yellow bill, and a strange red face. Its body, completely white except for an under-mantle of black feathers, had identified him to Peter as a yellow-billed stork, a fond visitor to large rivers and estuaries.
A sharp rap upon the door startled me. A lanky, tall black man clad in blue jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt grinned impishly at me.
“Excuse me, ma’am. I hope your husband is not in the bush because I see lion tracks just there. He should not have gotten out of the car.”
I must have appeared startled. “Husband?” I felt quite flattered at Peter being identified as my spouse. I shifted in my seat, ready to call out and warn Peter. “Do you really think there’s danger?”
The concerned visitor laughed sharply and suddenly lunged, grabbing my hair and twisting back my head. “But of course. It’s dangerous to travel these roads alone, Mama.”
The jeep was suddenly surrounded by four black men, two holding handguns. At just that moment I realized every woman’s nightmare: I was going to be raped and robbed. My captor jerked open the dusty jeep’s door and dragged me from the vehicle by my hair, twisting my arm viciously behind me. I cried out in pain while his accomplices scanned the wide parking area and neighboring bush. Only one road led to Crooks’ Corner. Traffic in this remote corner was sparse at best, and these men knew it.
“Get into the back!” the thin man barked. He flung open the door and threw me into the backseat of the jeep before scurrying to the driver’s seat. A stocky, short man with dreadlocks lowered himself into the passenger seat while a heavyset man with small, cold eyes and spiked tufts of hair joined me in the back. My arm and hair ached from their abuse. The fat man next to me, resembling a shorn porcupine, reeked of body odor and waved a pistol in front of my dazed eyes.
Peter! Where was Peter? I frantically scanned the dense scrub surrounding the large turn-around area. The gaunt man gunned the engine and tore out of the huge, circular lookout point, followed by the dusty white van. I strived to memorize the license plate, straining at the effort of focusing on the bobbing rectangle in the ensuing cloud of dust. HCJ 805 NW.
My captors spoke loudly in their own native tongue, the argument intense as I curled myself as far away from my smelly seatmate as I could. The emaciated hijacker drove wildly, suddenly veering off the main dirt road to crash through the brush. Only a few minutes later, the kidnapper made another abrupt turn south. I remembered from the map and Peter’s tutelage that this was wild country with no real public access. The driver remained tense as heated arguments in their native language flew around me. I dreaded to learn what topic they debated. I glanced out of the rearview mirror to note the bakkie still followed, dust and rocks flying behind its balding tires. For just an instant, I swore I glimpsed Peter running parallel to the river. It was a fruitless, pathetic hope. He couldn’t have been there.
The hijacker drove wildly for twenty minutes, dodging thorn trees, scattering small, brown coveys of speckled birds, and once disturbing a long-haired antelope resembling the kudu I had seen earlier. My numb mind recognize
d it as the elusive nyala. My backpack had fallen onto the backseat floor and the modishly-dreadlocked African fiddled greedily with my new camera and binoculars. He couldn’t know that Peter’s rifle was stowed in the back under a blanket. If I could somehow just reach back there! I had never used a gun in my life, but it had to be simple, didn’t it? My heavy seatmate turned pebble black-eyes on me and lasciviously examined my body. I instinctively knew without a shadow of a doubt that if I didn’t get out of this jeep soon, I was going to be assaulted and probably murdered. Later, I’d be tossed from the vehicle without a shred of conscience, to become food for the scavengers.
We traveled full throttle, holding parallel to the Limpopo River where huge logs, rocks, and debris littered its wide banks. The road became increasing rough as the jeep crashed by the dusty scenery. A crazy plan struck me. If I could somehow manage to leap from the 4x4, the jeep probably couldn’t follow me down the embankment. My kidnappers still adhered to a rough track that had probably once served as a maintenance road. If I planned to bolt, it was now or never. They hit a particularly large bump and the driver cursed in his own language while my seatmate clutched the headrest in front of him. I leaned over and grabbing my bulging backpack, jerked at the stiff door handle and plunged headfirst into the road as the dust billowed around me.
It was probably that choking dust which saved me, since the bakkie had dropped ten or so yards back, its driver straining to achieve more visibility as he steered through the blinding cloud. My shoulder hit the ground hard and though badly bruised and shaken, I leaped to my feet and tore past the rear of the jeep, sprinting for the wide shores of the Limpopo River. I crashed through the dense underbrush as the screech of brakes, followed by men shouting hoarsely, echoed above the harsh din of the car motors. I paid them no heed, desperately plunging down the embankment toward the river, swerving between dirty white boulders and protruding tree trunks in my frenzied effort to escape.
The telltale zing and ricochet of a bullet whizzed by my head, and I realized their intent. I must be killed quickly to avoid an eyewitness to their crime. Two of the men tore off after me and I suddenly had cause to bless the aerobics classes I faithfully attended four times a week as I careened pell-mell through the veldt. Another bullet whizzed past my cheek and a third kicked up the dust in front of me. Amazingly, the searching bullets missed me entirely, though the befuddled men fired at least half a dozen rounds. Even in my desperate attempt at escape, my heart and head cried out for Peter. If only I could get to him. Another bullet whizzed past my head and actually cropped some of my hair.
I could sense rather than see one of the men gaining on me, the thud of his feet echoing against the dusty earth. I swerved into a thorn bush, which tore at my cheek and ripped my long-sleeved t-shirt. Another burst of fire issued from the embankment and a cry of agony erupted from somewhere behind me. They had shot one of their own! It didn’t slow me down one iota. As I reached the vast expanse of the river, the notion that crocodiles, snakes, or even a lion might be near never occurred to me. I simply plunged noisily into the water, oblivious to any other danger than the pursuing men. The river spanned a hundred feet wide and at one point I nearly went down; the water suddenly swirling just below my hips, and deeper than I expected. I didn’t falter, the fear of death propelling me toward the seeming safety of Mozambique. Wild shouting reverberated behind me and I could discern some of their desperate words.
“You must come back, ma’am! You will die in the bundu, for the lions will eat you! We won’t hurt you, Mama! Come back!”
It was a no-brainer. I’d rather risk being eaten by lions than being raped and murdered by ruthless hijackers. I ran until I could run no more, finally dropping heavily by a sycamore fig tree in a desperate attempt to catch my breath. I roused within a few seconds, some sense of preservation propelling me up into the huge tree. The fig’s roughly gnarled trunk provided a nearly horizontal overhang, which I scampered up onto like a frightened monkey. There, with chest heaving and backpack perched by my side, I rested and watched.
Minutes ticked by, but no one pursued. Only the trill of some bird in the bush and the distant gurgle of water disturbed the midday calm. Finally it struck me why I heard nothing. They simply hadn’t followed me any farther. Their common sense indicated that as a woman alone in the wilds, a citified tourist with no survival skills, they didn’t need to find me. They had assumed, quite correctly, that the bush would prove my eventual graveyard. Given time, my body would be torn apart by greedy scavengers, my corpse a mute witness to their crimes. They didn’t believe that I had ever been accompanied by a man. They’d never seen Peter in the jeep, and because I sat in the driver’s seat, assumed I was alone. I shivered forlornly, only now realizing my folly. They were indeed correct. I had only seemingly escaped. In actuality, I was completely and utterly alone, totally lost in the bush and with Peter nowhere to be found.
Chapter 9
Thirty minutes later, after uselessly alternating between tears and rage, I pulled myself together enough to rummage through my backpack. I removed my gray sweatshirt and laid the bag’s paltry contents upon it. My treasure trove consisted of four energy bars, a box of Lion matches, one penlight flashlight with extra batteries, two small tissue packs, an open pack of cherry gum, dental floss, a nearly full two-liter bottle of spring water, antacid tablets, an extra hair tie, a small pack of biltong (the South African version of jerky), two large bags of salted peanuts, three apples, a pen, my small notepad and, God be praised, my Swiss army knife.
This was all that separated me between life and death in the African bush. I fingered the items glumly. Why hadn’t I packed more food and water for God’s sake? My map, binoculars, camera, and guidebook had rested near the console of the jeep and my wallet, chalet key, and park pass were in the vehicle’s dash. A loud tink-tink sound caused me to jerk and the gum, floss, and bottled water bounced into the dark foliage below.
It was only a pair of noisy black and white plovers aggressively warning away a large, cream egret-type bird, and I laughed shakily. Replacing all my gear inside the small backpack and swinging it over my sweaty shoulders, I cautiously half-slid, half-crept down the huge tree. I collected the fallen items scattered about and brushed off several oversized black ants now crawling over them. Sweeping the items back into my carryall, I crept back up the tree again to sit perched like some misshapen cat upon the sycamore fig’s wide branches.
Of course I’d forgotten that this was the very type of tree that leopards or deadly snakes might prefer. For now, its shady branches simply offered a safe haven, a refuge while I tried to collect my wits and decide what to do next. My cheek felt damp and I touched it tentatively, my finger coming away red from a jagged tear inflicted by the thorn tree. I removed one of the tissues and dabbed absently, wishing with all my heart that I had a better sense of direction. Peter had spoken about the Pafuri rest stop some ten kilometers distant; maybe he’d recall the comment and head that way. I stifled a sob. Peter would find me. He had to. He was an expert in the bush. Maybe if I just waited, he’d stumble upon me. So I delayed for nearly an hour.
Finally, the need to relieve myself forced me from my awkward perch. I hung my bag on a nearby branch and, grabbing one of the small tissues, crept down the gray, mottled trunk. Bright orange dragonflies flitted near the bank. In a false sense of modesty, I crouched in the bushes while glancing around jerkily. I had just finished when something ran past my trainers. I leaped up, letting out a sharp squeak. A small, yellow-tinged ground squirrel scurried through the bush. Jeez, one tiny little rodent and I was nearly plunged into cardiac arrest!
Disgusted, I pocketed the remaining tissues and returned to the upper branches, realizing I needed to formulate a plan. Help was foremost. If I could get back to the road, a car would certainly pass by. I’d alert the compassionate inhabitants that my companion was missing and they’d return me to Crooks’ Corner, where Peter likely waited.
My stomach growled and I contemplated
eating one of the energy bars and apples. Well, why not? If I was lucky I’d find the main road and flag down a passing vehicle within an hour or so; therefore, after little deliberation, I gave myself permission to eat. After devouring the bar and tossing the core onto the ant-laden ground, still hungry, I demolished half of the first bag of peanuts as well, washing them down with a huge swig of water.
Feeling immensely better, I took time to mourn the fact that I hadn’t managed to somehow retain the map. How was I supposed to find Peter or Crooks’ Corner without one? I closed my eyes and sought to visualize the direction in which I’d traveled.
Crooks’ Corner is located as far northeast as the road will go. To get there we’d wound through the thick tropical forest upon the eastern road overlooking the Luvuvhu River before turning north. Crooks’ Corner stands only three kilometers off the road. After a few moments of contemplation I realized that all I really needed to do was stay on this side of the Limpopo River and head north. I figured we’d driven perhaps fifteen minutes on the service road and I’d run at least twenty. If I followed the river, I estimated that within two hours I’d reach the wide, circular lookout point designating Crooks’ Corner. I bowed my head and sent up a small prayer, asking my Maker to guide me to Peter and safety.
I slipped down the tree once again and, removing the Swiss army knife, slipped it into my pocket. It’s amazing what a false sense of security the small red knife provided me. As an afterthought, I picked up a fist-sized stone in my right hand, ready to fling it at any beast who dared approach. I had a momentary vision of myself, a yellow-eyed lion slinking ever closer as I let loose a lethal stone, bouncing it squarely off her nose. The poor, bloodied beast would deliver one pained, catlike whimper and bound off, never to be heard of again. I grinned to myself. Everyone must be allowed Walter Mitty dreams, even a coward like me.
With the sound of the sluggish river gurgling on my left and the warmth of the sun upon my shoulders, it was probably a beautiful day. Unfortunately, I felt too anxious and desperate to appreciate anything but my need to find the road and Peter. The only wildlife seemed to be a countless array of birds I could not name or number. I plodded on for nearly forty minutes, my confidence rising. Finally, needing a breather, I lowered my aching body down upon a log and examined the embankment paralleling the river. The Limpopo is a leisurely watercourse, meandering half-heartedly through the brush and flood pan. However, I knew from my reading that its gentle appearance can be deceiving. During February 2000, pounding summer rains drenched Southern Africa and swelled the river to monstrous levels, flooding vast areas of Mozambique and killing thousands.
Heart of Africa Page 7