It felt good to rest, and I spent a few minutes observing a bright, double-winged flying insect hovering near me. A low, moaning grunt from behind caused me to jump in alarm from my makeshift bench. The crocodile was enormous, measuring at least eight feet long. He rested, his long, yellowish tail half-submerged in the water, and eyed me, those gleaming orbs atop his head unblinking and unfeeling. Thank God, the log was positioned between him and me! With a start I realized he wasn’t the only Nile crocodile present; at least half a dozen others basked upon the wet sand. How careless I’d been. This was crocodile territory. Hadn’t Peter told me how they routinely killed scores of Africans each year?
I edged slowly away from the reptile-infested river, facing a dilemma. Dare I continue following the shoreline, or should I climb the embankment in an effort to distance myself from the hungry crocs? But, I argued with myself, who knew what even more foul forms of wildlife lurked in the dense underbrush? The ancient reptile took an elevated step toward me, perched upon short bowed legs. His steady advance decided me. I scrambled up the steep bank, the shrubs tearing at my jeans and backpack. A narrow animal trail opened to my right, grass beaten down by countless creatures’ pilgrimages to the water. This seemed the likely choice. It would prove a fair sight easier going than tromping through the high grass. I was hopeful the trail would remain parallel to the river.
I followed the narrow ribbon of trail for a quarter of a mile, scanning the dense brush continually for both predators and Peter, until I tripped and banged my knees. It just wasn’t possible to watch the bush and the path at the same time. Staggering to my feet, I set off again, pausing once to rub my aching kneecaps.
I was almost as surprised as they when I stumbled upon a pair of waterbuck whose long, gray, shaggy coats covered sturdy bodies emblazoned with the telltale white rings upon their bottoms. The couple whirled, allowing me a wonderful view of their toilet-seat rears as they bounded through the foliage. At least these creatures were harmless. I concentrated on moving more cautiously and quietly, realizing I’d been lucky so far. Unfortunately, my lack of stealth made it impossible for me to move silently, no matter how hard I tried. After another five minutes, the well-worn trail veered inland and away from the river, to which I knew I had to keep if I were to ever find my way back to Crooks’ Corner and Peter. I paused by large, grayish-white boulders jetting out over the river, hedged by shiny-leafed shrubs.
I glanced at my watch. It was almost half past two. In winter, darkness completely cloaks Southern Africa by six in the evening. If I continued following the animal track, I would move further back into Mozambique, so my only choice was to cross the river and return to the South African side of Kruger. I hesitated, not wishing to venture anywhere near where the hijackers had waylaid me. Perhaps there were roads on the Mozambican side. No, I chided myself. Kruger had countless tourists traveling its well-maintained roads. My best chance lay within its boundaries, not in the less-managed wilds of Mozambique.
I cautiously ventured down onto the sandbank again, a pair of hammer-headed birds scurrying away at my approach. I strained my neck searching for crocs, though none lay lazily upon nearby sandbars. I stood for a moment and pondered. Should I leisurely pick my way across the wide, shallow river, or simply tear across in hopes of thwarting any attack by crocodiles or other predators? I inhaled deeply, readjusted my pack, and chose the latter.
The river, only knee-height, dampened my dirty jeans as I raced across its wide gulf. I stumbled once, my feet dragging in the wet sand. A snowy bird flapped angrily as it rose above the shallow water, but I ignored her, sprinting until dry soil crunched beneath my feet. Scrambling up the bank, I paused atop a boulder to catch my breath. Unfortunately, this side looked identical to the other. It was imperative that I find the sandy track the hijackers had used. As I descended the boulder, I decided that if I heard the approach of any vehicle, I’d duck behind a shrub until I determined whether the drivers were friend or foe.
Crossing my fingers, I headed directly west and stumbled upon the road within three minutes. A miracle! Now, if I just followed the track, where recent tire impressions clearly disturbed the dry sand, I should make it to Crooks’ Corner within an hour. My heart swelled and feeling almost gleeful, I managed a short fantasy about Peter, envisioning myself encircled by enthralled park rangers as he proudly lifted his sandy head, his dusky eyes filled with joy, while I recounted my thrilling tale of escape and survival.
It hit me suddenly that I wanted Peter to believe me competent and intelligent. That daydream moved me into action. Halting abruptly, I removed my small notebook and wrote down the bakkie’s license plate number before I forgot it. HCJ 805 NW. I also scribbled a brief description of the white van with its banged-up rear fender, as well as a clear description of my captors. I went on to describe my dusty, rented jeep and everything that had been left inside it. Unfortunately, I had less luck remembering the rental’s license plate number than that of my kidnappers.
I shoved the small notepad back into my backpack and took a long drink of water before setting off at a brisk jog. Breathless within ten minutes, I slowed down, deciding a swift walk wouldn’t tax my endurance as much as a run. As long as I made it to the main road within the hour, I would be just fine.
A strange, rasping sound startled me from my thoughts and I swung my eyes upward. Rearing up before me, not more than two yards distant, its long, charcoal body stretching across the entire expanse of the sandy track, loomed every hiker’s nightmare. The snake lifted a coffin-shaped head, its curved mouth fixed in an odd perpetual smile. I screamed as the serpent turned, rearing at least four feet in the air, its open mouth, black as night, hissing in warning. The only identification I could make through my panic was this was definitely not a cobra and must measure at least ten feet long.
I screeched and plunged off the dirt road, certain I heard the swish of the snake’s heavy body pursuing me into the brush. The rasping noise of its scales scraped the dirt directly behind me and I shrieked again. A large troop of baboons hooted and scattered into the trees as I tore past, too preoccupied to do little more than note their presence. I ran for what seemed ages, the rough scraping noise of the massive serpent’s scales indicating it remained right at my heels, intent on biting me at all costs.
Now, how could any snake be that fast and that persistent, a more rational mind might have wondered? But where snakes were concerned, I didn’t possess a single cogent bone in my body. I ran for at least a mile before a strange sort of mocking awareness crept over me. If I slowed (as I was rapidly tiring), the swishing noise slowed; if I speeded up, it speeded up too, sounding so close the serpent had to be practically upon me. I halted suddenly and the rasping noise of the snake’s scales ceased entirely. I stumbled a few paces in bewilderment before realizing dumbly that the pursuing noise I’d identified as belonging to the smiling snake as it surged against the ground was nothing more than my denim-clad legs rubbing against each other. Mortified, I paused by a thorny tree and cursed heartily, having proven beyond a shadow of a doubt what a citified fool I was! Thank God Peter hadn’t seen my frenzied retreat. The thought of what he’d think forced tears into my eyes.
The sweat poured off my face, and my back felt bruised from the pack’s violent banging against my spine. Humiliation nearly overwhelmed me, but it took quite a while for an even worse fact to sink in. In my frantic plunge through the dense undergrowth of the veldt, I’d lost the road entirely. Again disoriented, I spent the next hour frantically searching for the rough track the hijackers had used to steal the jeep. Though I tried to retrace my steps east toward the river, I couldn’t, for the life of me, relocate the wide Limpopo. The thieves’ tire imprints had been fresh in the dry sand and I consoled myself with the fact that since I’d found them once, I could surely do so again. But, as the minutes ticked rapidly toward sundown, my terror increased. I wandered half-dazed through the bush until finally, sweating and fatigued, I sank down upon a flaky stump, acknowledging for t
he first time that I was thoroughly and completely lost; an American idiot in paradise with my savior lover nowhere to be found.
Chapter 10
At now nearly 4:00 p.m., I realized that if I didn’t find the main road and Peter soon I’d lack shelter and warmth for the night. I had only ninety minutes until the gates closed at five thirty and probably thirty minutes of light left after that. While I might be lucky enough to run into some tourists doing a night drive, chances were slim. Instinct insisted that the Limpopo River had to be close, but in what direction? A lovely slim lizard with a long, electric-blue tail and striped body wiggled out into the ground before me. Clearly harmless, he now seemed my only friend, and so I directed the question at him.
“So which way do you think I should go, little guy?” I asked as the lizard basked in the bright sun. The reptile twitched its vivid blue tail and, considering that as much of a sign as anything else, I re-shouldered my backpack and began trudging in the direction his tail pointed.
A light cloud cover darkened the sky. While threatening no rain, it did succeed in confusing me as to the sun’s true direction. I walked slowly, hoping I was headed east. The late afternoon grew chilly and my stomach ached from tension. Worse yet, I seemed to be having an allergic reaction because my skin itched and crawled underneath my damp clothing. An unseen root caught at my trainer and I plunged facedown into the dirt, eating sand. Spitting and coughing, I dragged myself into a shallow indentation in the soil not far from some acacia trees.
Like a hopeless child I burst into tears, the salt stinging my torn cheek. Despair visited me that hour just before dusk as I lay trembling, curled into a tight ball in a fruitless effort to try to retain my waning body heat. Black ants scurried near my face and the evening sounds escalated, adding to my ripening fear.
It was then I spotted her. Her eyes glowed yellow in the dimming light as her elfish ears tilted toward me. She remained frozen in mid-stride as she analyzed how viable a meal I’d make. How had it come to this?
The cat’s yellow eyes bored into my hazel ones. Never a champion at staring contests, something broke inside me. Whether it was fear, despair about Peter and my situation, stupidity, or some belated sense of courage that propelled me, I’ll never know.
I suddenly lurched to my feet, screaming and roaring, clapping my hands together like some frenzied exercise nut performing clownish jumping jacks. The feline’s eyes flamed and she leaped—not at me but away, springing gracefully over low bushes and grass. Madness overtook my senses and I chased her, screaming like a wild banshee. I remained as sure-footed and almost as swift as she. The caracal suddenly leaped, springing in a graceful arch that landed her upon the sandy shores of the river.
I stopped like some sort of demented lemming halted at the edge of the cliff it had nearly plunged over. Standing gratefully upon the rocky embankment, I stared once again at the wide Limpopo. The frightened cat had led me to its sluggishly moving waters. I sank down upon my bottom and gazed at its banks, cherishing its wide, languid shores like a lost lover regained. The distant grunting of submerged hippos echoing through the riverbank stirred up a belated sense of reason in my fatigued brain. With little chance of finding the main road before dark, I had to face the fact that I was stuck in the bush for the night. I tried to remember all the tidbits of information Peter had shared about his walking safaris. I recalled how he and his clients had slept atop their jeeps in a portable tent—hoisted away from lions, snakes, and other harmful creatures.
Scanning the curving banks of the river, I searched for an elevated place to shelter. Perhaps one of those huge fig trees I’d climbed after escaping the hijackers would do. In its protective branches I could craft a nest for the night. After a cautious quarter of a mile, I stumbled upon the perfect tree. Nestled within a clump of three similar trees with huge, buttressed trunks and powdery yellowish-orange bark, my chosen refuge hung over the sandy embankment, presenting an uninterrupted view of the meandering river. Behind it, a semi-clearing seemed ideal for building a fire. After climbing the huge trunk, I discovered a broken branch perfect for hanging my backpack safely away from baboons and other creatures.
I shimmied down and, now shivering, began foraging for dry wood in the dim light. Luckily, driftwood plentifully dotted the sandy expanse of the Limpopo River. I pulled several large pieces out of the sand and dragged them toward my little clearing. Perfect. Unfortunately, without kindling I’d have no way to ignite the large pieces. Twenty yards away, a broken log, bent branches extending like a pincushion from its decaying trunk, rose from the sandy soil. I hastily twisted small twigs off its reluctant surface until a sharp sting upon my knuckle halted me. A bright red ant, the length of my fingernail, crawled across the back of my hand. Fire ants scurried everywhere and with a sharp cry I dropped the branch and frantically beat off the swarm. I stood right in their nest! Hopping back, I still felt the hot sting of a renegade soldier’s attack beneath my trouser leg. Beating frantically at my already bruised leg, I stumbled away.
A few yards away, some dry-looking twigs peeked from under a crumbling rock. Straining with the effort, I pulled mightily, finally toppling the small boulder. A black scorpion, tail curved menacingly over its shiny body, scuttled toward my foot. Shrieking loudly, I leaped over the boulder and the arachnid darted into the deep shadow of a river rock. After that, incredibly tentative and literally jumping at every shadow, it took me a full fifteen minutes just to gather enough twigs to start a fire.
Like a conscientious Girl Scout, I carefully positioned saucer-sized stones in an attempt to encircle the fire pit as a preventive measure, hoping to contain any sparks that might start the dry grass ablaze. Thank goodness I had my box of matches. I decided to wait until it was almost completely dark to light my fire. I now had enough wood to last several hours; hopefully, that would keep away any predators.
Hunger gnawed at my innards as I considered my limited meal choices. I could finish off the peanuts, eat another energy bar, have one of the apples, or tuck into the biltong. Any of those options would leave little for breakfast or lunch. After consuming a long drink of water I decided to search for something edible from the veldt to make my meager supplies last longer. Late-blooming flowers lined the riverbank, resembling tall, red-blossomed matchsticks. At nearly a meter high, small clusters of peanut-sized red berries clung to their bottom stems. I’d been lectured all through my growing years by my farm-bred grandmother about how one must be extremely cautious regarding what they consume from nature. Her own cousin had died a horrible death from ingesting poisonous toadstools.
But how was I to determine if the berries were poisonous or not? I finally decided that dinner this night would simply have to consist of an energy bar, a few peanuts, one apple, and some bottled water. I momentarily wondered if there were any fish in the shallow Limpopo, but after recalling my experience with the crocodile, decided that finding out might not be such a wise idea.
A snort and a crackle issued from the brush and I immediately scrambled up the fig tree, perched upon the overhanging branch with my feet drawn up, ready to crawl higher if the need arose. A very large grayish-brown baboon came out of the bush and sniffed about, his weight resting on his knuckles. He scanned the riverbank before emitting a low howl, apparently beckoning his troop. Realizing that trees are a second home to baboons, I crouched silently, alert to the intruder’s every move. Peter had warned me about the aggressive Chacma baboons with their large canines and troops numbering up to a hundred. I had hoped since Letaba to see one close-up on my journey. One should be careful what one wishes for.
The first baboon to emerge from the bush was a huge male, his dusty fur bristling. He sat on his haunches and manipulated his large testicles. The sight was unnerving. A smaller male baboon smacked the back of his head like a teacher does an offending student, and the leader and several others of his troop chased after him, dashing across the sandy bank. The others of the group, apparently thirsty, leaned down with their lips close to
the water and drank noisily. A few stragglers, mostly young mothers with children balanced upon their backs and leaning against their upright tails, began foraging the same tall flowers I’d analyzed earlier. I watched in keen interest as they peeled off the berries and popped them into their mouths, chewing just like humans. I smiled to myself; here was a surefire method to determine if the berries were edible or not. Hopefully the baboons would leave me enough to snack upon later.
Luckily the baboons did not linger long. The females soon quit their foraging and sauntered down to the river for drinks before heading north. The troop followed the bank, keeping away from the water to instinctively avoid lurking crocodiles. However, they took their own sweet time about it and a full fifteen minutes passed before the last baboon disappeared from sight.
By now, nearly paralyzed from perching on the scaly branch, I slid down the first few feet and then jumped, leaping upon the soft sand beneath the tree. Numb from lack of circulation, I landed first upon my stinging feet before falling straight upon my bottom, my rubbery legs failing to support me. I spent the next few minutes rubbing them briskly and noting how cool it suddenly had become. The sun obstinately faded behind the opposite stand of trees and I realized I needed to immediately start my fire after foraging for the last bit of berries while there was still enough light to see.
Heart of Africa Page 8