The sun had perched directly overhead when Peter suddenly gave a cry of triumph and lunged forward. I have no idea from whence the small stream of flowing water originated, only knowing it was welcome beyond belief. A few moss-covered boulders sidled up against the low embankments and from them, in the shape of a widening fan of perhaps thirty yards, grass obstinately grew green in the dry heat. A few pale-brown birds scattered at our approach as Peter quickly knelt near the base of the rock.
“Do you see,” he pointed, “how it seeps from the stone? There must be some sort of underground stream.”
He knelt and drank, and then moved aside for me. I lay prone in the cushy green grass and gulped noisily. And, because the water was so plentiful, I even dared wash my face. Peter then gathered his dirty second-hand sports bottle and my own two-liter bottle, and filled them to the brim.
“We’ll rest here awhile,” he said, “and drink more. I’d like to scout around, but since water is very scarce in this region, many dangerous animals may come here to drink. I think it would be a good idea if you accompanied me.”
It sounded like an excellent plan. I took one more drink and then noticed the comical expression on his face.
“What?” I asked expectantly.
“It’s just, Mandy, that the water has made interesting designs upon your face…”
The small pool of clear water allowed me to catch my reflection. The dirt made a boundary of filth on my streaked face. Dust outlined my eyes and I resembled some kind of scary African Halloween mask. I giggled and dunked my face completely in the water. The refreshing shock was welcome as I scrubbed my face briskly with my hands.
I leaned my still-dripping face upward and asked, “Is that better?”
“Much, lass. You’re passably kissable,” and he followed the words with the deed. “Let’s rest a bit and wash off your tick bites.” I obeyed and used my rinsed-out water bottle to splash and cleanse the sores.
While I was busy, Peter scanned the depths of the bush. A strange, high, jolting laugh came from not far off.
“Bere!” exclaimed Peter as he gripped his spear.
“Bere?” I repeated.
“The hyena. They laugh before they kill.”
From Peter’s expression, I gathered that a hyena was something I wouldn’t want to run into personally on foot. I remembered their nerdish appearance when I’d viewed them the first time from the safety of my car.
“I saw a couple the other day. They’re dangerous?” I asked nonchalantly.
“Very. The brown less so, because he is more solitary, but the spotted run in packs.”
He humped his shoulders to mimic them. “They’re so fierce they will fight the lion for its kill. Did you know that the brown hyena drinks no water? The blood and fluid from the carcasses gives him enough. The female has a false penis and is a ruthless and skilled hunter.”
I gulped. “A false penis? Jeez. Are the brown found in this area?”
“Not as much as the spotted.”
The sound repeated itself and intensified to a mixture of high-pitched screams, strange gurgling squeals, and definite dog-like whines. Finally a distant answer floated back, followed by another message before all fell silent.
“It must be a brown. The spotted can live in clans of up to eighty in number, but that sounded like only two speaking. The spotted’s shouts are different, more like whooo-oop and rising in strength at the end. Sometimes they even seem to giggle. That is why they’re referred to as the laughing hyena. They’re more a predator than the brown, and thus much more dangerous. I believe I should scout around.”
I nodded, though I didn’t want him to go. Peter rose abruptly and balancing his walking stick-spear on his shoulder, disappeared into the bush. Within ten minutes he returned, dragging something large and white behind him.
“I saw no hyena,” Peter announced, “but look what I found.” The joy of a little boy parading his newly-found treasure sparkled in his face as he adjusted an immense skull with huge, hollow eyeholes before me.
“Is that an elephant?” I asked incredulously.
“It is indeed. I believe this one died in its forties of disease.”
“Now how could you possibly know that?” I asked.
He laughed. “Remember how I told you about the teeth?”
Peter worked and wiggled at the jawbone of the massive skull, finally managing to dislodge a couple resistant bicuspids.
“Do you see here? This is his fourth row of teeth. As I told you, elephants are born with six rows only, and each row lasts him about ten years. The elephant must eat up to fourteen hours a day and consume perhaps a hundred and seventy kilos of grass and leaves to maintain his massive weight.”
I did a quick mental calculation. “Let’s see, if a kilo is a little over two pounds, that means roughly three hundred and forty pounds or more a day. Amazing,” I exclaimed.
“It is indeed, lass. As herbivores, they must feed continually. Fortunately, they’re not picky eaters. They’ll eat anything and everything that is chewable, including sticks. They grind and wear down a row of teeth every ten years or so, mostly from the rough bark they chew.”
“But you say this elephant was in his forties?”
“Yes. Let me prove how I know.” He dug around with his knife and in the light of the flickering flames, pointed to twin embedded rear sets of teeth.
“Two rows left. He must have been injured or sick. The sick here die quickly, as the lion and hyena take out the feeble first.”
In his hand rested a small block of elephant teeth.
“May I have that?” I asked suddenly.
Peter seemed surprised. “You want the elephant teeth? But, of course.”
“I’ll keep it as a souvenir of how I was lost in the bush with you.”
Peter smiled and settled on the ground, using the skull as a backrest. “Tell me more about your family, Mandy.” One would have thought it was a pleasant Sunday afternoon over tea on the terrace. “You have other family than your mother?”
“Yes. I’m an only child, but Ken, my cousin, was raised by my folks. My father died a couple years ago, but my mother and cousin still live in Florida. We reside in Orlando, though actually Mom’s on the perimeter of the city. She’s still quite mobile and can get around. She took me to the airport.”
“Your cousin, is he older or younger?”
“Older. He is trained as a scientist and owns a computer company. He’s quite successful.”
“You don’t care for him.” It was a statement.
“How’d you work that one out?”
“There is no warmth in your voice when you speak of him.”
I hesitated. A daytime sliver of moon showed itself just above the thorn trees.
“My cousin is difficult, but only a little more so than my mother,” I said lamely. “Ken is very conservative and has an opinion about everything. He doesn’t really like women or people of color that much. He believes he’s… naturally superior. It doesn’t matter that I have a college education and support myself; I will never be his equal, not in his eyes or my mother’s. He’s clearly the favorite, even though he’s not Mom’s son.”
“I understand. The living blood of a family can make one’s shoulders stoop.”
The simple statement for some reason warmed me. “How true. I suspect my cousin feels superior to everyone because of his education, intelligence, and upbringing. He is brilliant after all.”
“And his brilliance blinds him to life? He’s not married?”
“No, and I think he never shall.”
“And you don’t like him and feel guilty because of it?”
“Yes, and because he always finds fault with me, thus making it difficult for me to love him.”
“In the village near where I was raised in Zimbabwe, there was a wise old man who told many stories similar to the one about the mosquito.”
I smiled at the memory of the delightful tale.
“He died not fifteen y
ears ago,” Peter continued, “in a most horrible way.” He paused and sighed. “The old man originally came from Lesotho. He was short and crooked and age had twisted his fingers so he could barely hold a cup. Most of the Shona from my region were tall. The men from Lesotho are small, perhaps because of the harsh conditions of their mountainous country.”
I had to interrupt. “I’m afraid I don’t know where Lesotho is.”
Peter didn’t seem surprised. “It is a small, high country totally surrounded by South Africa. It is said that Old Man Lightning strikes there more than any other place in the world. Anyway, some people disliked the fact that Sipho had come to that village, married one of the chief’s daughters, and was revered as a wise man. He was not one of the “locals,” you see, though he had lived in that village since before I was born. Most accepted him, but not a man named Loben. Loben was like your cousin. Anyone not like him was unwelcome. He hated whites, the Ndebele, and any Shona who disagreed with him. He beat his wife and said it was because Tira was stupid and slow. And then, even as she was pregnant with his fifth child, he cast her out and married a girl of sixteen from the neighboring village, saying Tira dishonored him by only bearing daughters.
The tribal elder sent Loben to speak with Sipho in hopes that the old man would give his son some advice that might straighten him out. Loben did as instructed and spent over an hour at the old man’s hut. Afterwards, he disappeared for three days. Sipho did not appear the next morning and finally his granddaughter, very concerned, went to check on him. There she found him with his head smashed in, the brains oozing out and the ants… the ants had been at his body and had started to clean the flesh from his bones. It was a scene most horrifying, my father said.”
I shuddered at his unique manner of speaking.
“Worse yet, it was determined that he had died just around the time Loben visited him. When Loben finally returned home from his wanderings, he was arrested by the police. But he had an alibi. He had left Sipho in good condition, he said. The old man must have slipped and fallen, hitting his head against the hearth stones. It was true that there was blood on the bricks.”
“You think he was guilty?”
“None of us will ever know. After Sipho’s death, Loben said that God had come to him in a vision during his days in the bush, and ordered that all outsiders must be either driven away or killed. If not, God would smite them down, just like Sipho. Soon, there were attacks upon the nearest white tobacco farm, and one of our neighbor’s daughters was killed by cattle stampeded by the intruders. Loben was clearly the leader, stating the whites had robbed, raped, and stolen from his people and didn’t deserve to live in Zimbabwe anymore. Anyone who disagreed with him was branded a traitor, and Loben suggested that all who weren’t “true Zimbabweans” should leave. My family knew it was just a matter of time, so we sold out and moved to Zambia. Later, I started university in South Africa to study the care and maintenance of game parks. I’ve never gone home. To this day, Zimbabwe is full of voices just like Loben’s.”
“I’m sorry,” I said and squeezed his hand, saddened his handsome face had turned so bleak.
“You rested now?”
“Enough. Lead the way, sir.”
Chapter 21
We both felt fairly strong and adopted a brisk pace through the scrub forest. Only twice did we spot game. Once, while crossing the sandstone hills and mopane treed plains, I glimpsed a small herd of impala, the dominant male lifting his head inquiringly before allowing his herd of does to continue browsing. The second buck species, as we headed gradually southwest, was angling down toward the Mazanje waterhole, and bounded parallel to us for a full minute before crashing into the bush. Its large, veined ears, white underbelly, and short spike-like horns were unfamiliar.
“The steenbok,” announced Peter as if reading my mind. “They’re generally active only in the morning and evening, and are very territorial. The interesting thing about this species is it buries its urine and feces. Pretty thing, hey?”
“Yes, very.”
We walked for nearly an hour. More observant now, I asked Peter readily about various plants, insects, and birds. I noted not only dove feathers, but speckled white-and-black ones which Peter identified as the Guinea fowl. When a kek-kek sound emitted from a thorny tree, I glimpsed a small white-and-black bird exhibiting boundless energy.
“It’s the white-winged tern; it’s found throughout this region.”
And everywhere, anywhere, swarmed the endlessly busy ants. From small black troopers to enormous brown warriors, they scurried under our feet, up tree trunks, or clung to swaying spears of grass. Wasps and dragonflies flitted about and a butterfly, shot through with white and scarlet, alighted upon early blue flowers. Once Peter stopped to point out a lone suricate that barked out a swift warning as we neared.
“That’s the sentinel. The mammals are quite social and many are around, but they’re in hiding.” Peter suddenly halted, turning around to smile at me from where we stood on the low crest of a sandstone hill. The trees seemed greener here and huge pod mahoganies grew thickly.
“We are not much more than two hours or so from the waterhole. We’ll be home soon, Mandy, for many tourists drive there to watch the animals drink.”
A thrill of excitement coursed through my veins; my return to civilization was only a couple hours away! We were carefully ascending the rather steep incline when a strange sound followed by a trumpeting roar and the heavy crash of brush filled the air. High-pitched screams eerily surrounded us. Peter tensed, his sandy head jerking back and forth as he tried to determine the origin of the sound.
“What is it?” I screeched, my hand grabbing the dirty sleeve of his khaki shirt.
“It sounds like a woman and…” He took off at a dead run.
I had no choice but to follow, my slippery trainers a poor substitute for his boots in this rough terrain.
We plunged down the rest of the incline before jerking up short at the most horrible sight I’ve ever seen. The prostrate woman was already dead, but for some reason the elephant didn’t seem to believe that fact and continued trampling her limp form. I leaped forward to help, but Peter grabbed my arm, jerking me back.
“There’s nothing we can do. She got between the matriarch and her baby. It’s the elephant’s revenge.”
The pachyderm finally turned, lowering its long trunk to touch the woman roughly. The bloody woman didn’t move so finally, her blood lust satisfied, the agitated elephant backed off. The matriarch paused, fanning her ears and roaring. A small herd of elephants emerged from the trees. Four stood full-grown, but three were babies. The murderess lifted her trunk and bellowed again, and this time the elephants shuffled off. The smallest, standing not much higher than four feet, seemed reluctant to leave and the impatient matriarch batted him on the rear with her trunk, forcing him to obediently move along. We waited for what seemed an eternity until only the faint sound of their steady retreat and the clicking noises of insects filled the air.
“We can go down now,” whispered Peter and I followed him to where the prostrate victim, covered in sand and blood, lay motionless. My heart lurched, for it had not been just a lone woman. Strapped to her back, under a soiled red blanket, lay the humped form of a baby. Only the blanket was not naturally red—it had originally been colored a light beige and blue. I turned my head away in agony.
“This is sad. Sad indeed,” grieved Peter. We drooped there in the churned-up sand and gazed helplessly at the lifeless pair.
“Who is she?” I asked, barely able to keep back my tears.
“In this area, many refugees from Mozambique cross. It is likely her husband preceded her to South Africa and sent a message for her to join him.”
“But why was she here alone; alone with her baby?”
“I don’t know,” said Peter heavily. “But one thing is for certain: if we leave her, the vultures and hyenas will arrive in a matter of minutes.”
He was not far wrong. Already, dark s
pecks in the brilliant blue dome of the sky circled and dipped ever lower.
“What shall we do?” I asked. I now cried silently. What a cruel, horrible fate!
Peter dropped to his knees and turned the woman over. Her body may have been brutalized and broken, but amazingly enough, her smooth, brown face remained unscathed. She appeared no older than sixteen. Peter untied the blanket knotted just above her breast and gingerly lifted out the baby. I suspected it was a little boy, not more than six months old, but it was so bloody and smashed it was difficult to discern its features.
“Help me dig a grave,” Peter ordered. “While only a short-term solution, it will allow us time to get away from here before the dangerous scavengers arrive.”
Peter chose a shady spot under one of the mahogany trees and we both knelt and dug with our hands in the soft sand. It did not take long for the two of us to scoop out a narrow trough wide enough to roll the bodies into. The Zimbabwean arranged the still corpse of the young girl with the baby held in her arms. Though bloody, they both appeared asleep.
“We need logs and rocks to place on top so the animals can’t dig them up so quickly,” Peter said. “Could you go try and find some?”
A decent-sized log lay not twenty feet away and I hurried over to it. As I tugged and pulled, I harbored a strange feeling that if I just kept busy, the horror of what had happened to the young girl and her baby would somehow disappear. A soft tenor voice lifted in song, forcing me to glance up from my sweat-popping task. Having scraped sand over the bodies of the woman and her baby, Peter now stood, his arms held stiffly to his sides, and softly serenaded the pair in a language I did not understand. The beautiful dedication to her and the nameless baby enveloped me in sadness. I don’t know if he sang to God or to the powers of nature, but profound grief resonated from his reverent voice.
I whispered a silent, hurried prayer as well, one filled with questions and accusations. Why had this young woman, scarcely out of girlhood, died so horribly? Why are some allowed to live while others have their fragile lives literally torn from them?
Heart of Africa Page 16