It was then that I heard what Peter had earlier; the grind of a truck’s motor pulsing through the midday heat. A large, open truck full of armed men roared into the clearing where the poacher’s lifeless victim lay.
“Oh, no!” I hissed, clinging to the false hope that perhaps they hadn’t seen us. How guilty we must have looked, standing not twenty feet from the butchered buck. Peter grabbed my arm and pulled me backwards.
“Stop!” cried the lead soldier, who wielded a deadly-looking rifle. Peter thrust me behind him.
“Eish! Run, Mandy! Make for the river! These are not our friends!”
We tore through the brush, the thorns grabbing at my wrapped ankles. I could hear the rapids below, and the shrill screech of a fish eagle. But far louder was the roaring, reckless pursuit of an armored jeep and shouting soldiers. The way was rugged, and the jagged rocks and brush aided us for a while, but our pursuers were determined.
The steep cliff served as an insurmountable barrier and we both halted abruptly, clouds of dust and debris surrounding us. Peter shoved me behind him and raised his makeshift spear.
“Get behind me Mandy! Don’t shoot! We are lost! I have an American woman with me. Don’t…”
Those were the last words Peter emitted. I remember it now in horrifying clarity, the long seconds ticking brutally in demented slow-motion. Like harpies, the camouflaged soldiers descended upon us, jumping from their truck and swinging automatic rifles up to their shoulders.
I’m not exactly sure, as I tumbled to the ground behind Peter, what it was the handsome Zimbabwean intended to do. I think that perhaps he’d just meant to ward them off. Or, was it simply the hunter and tracker’s instinct in him that compelled him to raise his rudely-made spear at them, or were his hands held up in truce? As the shots rang out know I screamed, the hysterical pitch of my voice filling the late-afternoon air.
Several bullets hit him simultaneously and Peter tumbled backwards, plummeting over the cliff. The soldiers lurched forward, aiming their rifles at me, ready to fire. I heard the frightful splash as his body hit the water, and crawled in the dirt like a lizard to peer over the crumbling cliff. Peter rocked face down, his body swirling in a slow-motioned circle; the crimson of his blood tingeing the water. The current caught him and tossed him to and fro. Then he was tumbling, twisting over and over in the frothing white water to be pummeled and forced downstream.
The half-dozen or so troopers circled me, their rifles held ready as I screamed in helpless confusion. A soldier pulled me roughly to my feet. Helplessly sagging in agony, I gazed at the silent murderers who stood so mutely at the edge of the cliff overlooking the charging river.
The finality of death should be a simple concept, particularly when one is stranded deep inside a huge game reserve where living creatures struggle every day for their lives. Of course I understood that. Hadn’t I witnessed my grandparents’ gentle transition into death and watched my father battle tooth and nail for every feeble breath during his last few weeks of life? And of course, there had been the helpless young woman this morning, trampled to an early demise by the belligerent elephant. But this was different. How can something as vital as a living man—as energetic as the vibrant Peter—finally succumb to death? The reaper, now perched in the massive fig tree bordering the watering hole, grinned as the river carried away his prize, his scythe signaling to the circling vultures that yet another tidbit awaited them amongst the rocks when the river finally calmed.
“He’s not a poacher!” I screamed finally, and the camouflaged soldier who had helped me up found it difficult to keep hold of me. It finally took two more of the stone-faced men to restrain me, as I fought and writhed in my helplessness, held firmly by the trio.
“He is not a poacher,” I cried hysterically. “You’re murderers, murderers! Peter! Hurry! Take your vehicle and find him! He might still be alive!”
The soldiers shifted, suddenly made acutely uncomfortable by my loud incriminations. What they had viewed as a rescue rendered them only abuse. Their leader edged closer; a thin, wiry man with short, kinky hair dotted abundantly with gray. His dusty sunglasses rebuffed my hysterical face. I continued to scream as he solemnly removed them, his broad nose flaring widely under eyes so dark they were rendered opaque. He studied my frantic form in silence. I shrieked again and would have sought to batter him if I had not been held so firmly by the three soldiers.
“He was not a poacher!” I repeated; my voice high and tight.
The officer didn’t even flinch at my piercing cry. “Yes, he was,” the commander said quietly, responding to me like a parent does an inconsolable child.
“He wasn’t. Peter was just taking me to the waterhole because we’d been hijacked and lost. He was my guide and friend.”
“He is Zimbabwean?” my tormentor asked matter-of-factly. “His name Voorhurst?”
“He is a Zimbabwean, but his name is Peter Leigh, not Voorhurst!”
“You have his papers?” asked the unfazed leader. “I thought not. He,” said the officer, peering straight at me, “is a notorious poacher. Hijacking women tourists, stealing our precious game. You are safe now.” He gestured towards the distant waterhole where the brutalized kudu’s left hind leg pointed toward the sky, locked grotesquely in rigor mortis.
“No, no,” I moaned.
“It is no great loss,” the troop’s leader continued, “that another of these invaders has perished. It is one less problem for me to deal with. One less problem in a sea of problems.”
I protested weakly. “Peter is an innocent guide who helped me. I was lost… lost in the bush, and Peter came to my aid.”
The tall man snorted. “Innocent, him? Of course not. He came illegally into our country as a poacher. He knew the consequences if he was discovered.”
For some reason, I couldn’t control my body’s massive shaking. The head soldier’s voice gentled as he pondered me.
“It is only important that you are safe, ma’am. You are the missing Miss Phillips, aren’t you? That Zimbabwean, he kidnapped you?”
Hadn’t this bastard heard anything I’d said? I didn’t respond because my voice had dried up. I could only shake my heavy head. Speaking was wickedness and silence only slightly less so.
He continued, taking my lack of response for agreement. “We have been searching days for you. Your jeep was found abandoned across the Limpopo. The tires were shredded from the rough road and the hijackers ripped out the console and DVD player and removed the seats and much of the engine. You are fortunate to come out unhurt from such uncouth men.” He spat towards the cliff. “His kind has no regard for life.”
I could only stare blankly at him as the now idle soldiers milled around, oblivious to Peter’s plunge into the river. One appeared to be chewing gum.
“I have forgotten my manners. My name is Sergeant Thabo Magandi. It is time for us to take you to safety.”
I must have suddenly sagged because the troopers’ iron grip loosened. They now struggled to hold me up rather than restrain me.
“Do not worry about this poacher. We will take care of his body… if the crocodiles leave us anything to find. He was nothing, nothing at all and cannot harm you anymore.”
Peter, nothing? The man who had saved me, taught me, filled me with hope, and most importantly, loved me. Guilt and fury overwhelmed me.
I violently shrugged off my captors, who respectfully stepped back. I had no knowledge of how wild and tough I appeared to them. My chestnut hair resembled greasy, matted dreadlocks and my normally pale skin was burned beyond recognition and stained with charcoal. My bug-ridden clothes were torn and filthy and my trainers had two gaping holes in the toes. I swayed, but refused the men’s offered help. Staggering feebly toward the cliff’s edge, again I searched the rushing river. Nothing. No Peter, no hope. I whirled on the sergeant.
“I’ve told you before; he was not a poacher. You’ve committed a crime against an innocent man and I’m going to turn you in to the proper authoriti
es!”
Sergeant Magandi appeared puzzled. “Your so-called friend raised his spear at us. Innocent men do not attack the military.”
“He was only trying to protect me,” I whimpered.
My rescuer’s face softened. “I think I understand. It is a woman’s nature to grieve for even the most callous of men, even a tsotsi.”
“I’m begging you. Send the jeep downstream. His name is Peter Leigh. Check with Kruger Park’s headquarters. He’ll be on their roster as one of their tourist guides. Please.”
Thabo Magandi hesitated before barking out something to his men. One of them eased his rigid stance and stooped to retrieve my pack, which he respectfully gave me.
What causes the sprite Mercy to elevate her bedraggled head during such tragedy? I have no knowledge from where this phenomenon springs and why some men live their entire lives without a shred of it, while others suddenly exhibit it out of the blue. Thabo was one such man. His eyes gentled as he studied my wild, disheveled form, and took pity upon me.
“It is clear,” he announced to his half-dozen troops, “that this man is important to Miss Phillips. Radio Private Lwazi and have B Unit search downstream.”
When no one moved, he turned abruptly and shouted in a rapid tribal tongue. The youngest of the group peered unblinkingly at him.
“Yebo,”
[3] he said finally, and shouldered his rifle. Two of the men stalked over to examine the butchered kudu, while the others sidled up to their vehicle, their backs to me, to begin barking into a walkie-talkie.
In a nearby tree, a beautiful gray lourie with dark, haunting eyes, who now I could identify because of Peters’s tutelage, called out heey-heey. Peters’s voice, its memory still rich in timbre, echoed in my ears. The grey lourie is evil. She rested upon our roof the day my father’s farm was overrun and called “Go away, go away.”
And now there she perched, whining nasally “waaaay, kay-waaaay,” over and over again. The translation was simple: Wake up stupid woman, you are asleep. Go away—kay-waaay from Africa—you bring bad luck! Wake up and face the reality of Africa and the rest of the world: some people matter and others don’t.
The lourie mocked my dismal state for another full five minutes as I crouched in the dirt and chaos reigned about me. Resigned and still disbelieving, I finally rose and gathered up my tattered knapsack before heading to the waiting truck. Later, in the rear of the vehicle, as it roared and bumped along the rocky road belching black smoke into the purity of the African bush, I wept.
Chapter 23
For all those who state that South Africans are inefficient, heartless, and hopelessly mired in endless bureaucracy, I must confirm that, at least in this instance, they are all wrong. I was treated, after those traumatic events, with only the utmost civility and kindness. A helicopter carried me to Louis Trichardt, a city not far from the Punda Maria gate, and deposited me in the local hospital. There, I was endlessly prodded and poked until finally being pronounced fairly fit. I suffered from a mild case of head lice, bug bites, and numerous ticks that had escaped Peter’s scrutiny, as well as countless bruises and scratches. Numb, I was wheeled into a semi-private hospital room for overnight observation. I took a long, hot shower and was presented a nutritious meal. The American Embassy in Pretoria, after being notified of my mishap, promised to send out a representative the very next day.
My wallet, passport, and camera were missing from the remains of the trashed jeep, and I could not leave the country without some form of identification and cash. A middle-aged Afrikaner man, the florid-faced representative of Kruger Park, contacted the camp in Shingwedzi and my room was emptied. It was there they found Peter’s bag, clothing, ID, and park badge.
Mr. Pretorius promised a full-blown search for Peter’s body and later returned with clean clothes and my plane ticket, the latter which I had thankfully left in a drawer by the bed. The rest of my belongings would follow. Frankly, as his portly figure disappeared through the swinging door, I could not even remember exactly what those other belongings were. I wanted nothing from Peter’s and my room. My heart had morphed into ice. I was surprised the doctor could even find a heartbeat.
Once the sympathetic Kruger representative had departed, a bustling African nurse fussed and cooed over me, her delightfully rounded countenance exuding a maternal and soothing sense of order as she tucked me in just like my mother used to and begged me to try and sleep after my “dreadful ordeal.”
“You call me or another Sister if you need anything, Mama. Try to sleep.”
The lights of the pale room dimmed, the room door swished, and only the faint scurry of busy hospital staff passing occasionally outside the small window of my swinging door indicated the hospital still functioned. All abandoned me to supposedly sleep and get better. Instead I lay rigid, my fists clenched as the vision of Peter’s bullet-ridden body sailing over the cliff, and Thabo’s hollow explanation regarding his death, crowded out any possibility of sleep.
It was that final, horrible realization that I’d been able to do nothing to save my innocent, cherished Zimbabwean that finally overwhelmed me. I remembered my earlier thoughts—had it only been just that morning after we’d witnessed the trampled refugees’ bodies in the wash?—regarding people’s destinies. Couldn’t we have taken another path or found a tourist road? For hours I rehashed every memory and every step that had led my beloved Peter to the anti-poaching troops. Why had God or fate intervened, snuffing out Peter’s life and leaving me here alone, to tremble cowardly under the thin hospital sheet as I recognized I had been the real culprit in his demise?
The kindly nurse had placed the battered backpack and my meager personal belongings, fetched by Mr. Pretorius, inside the small cabinet beside my hospital bed. I leaned over and removed the small notebook where I had recorded all my sightings in Kruger. The last entry, in Peter’s bold hand, denoted his sister’s first name and Capetown number. I couldn’t bring myself to call her just yet. It would needlessly worry her. Surely, surely, they would find him.
I tossed most of the night, only drifting into a restless drowse at 4:00 a.m. It was a night far more hideous and lonely than any spent lost in the bush.
The American Embassy chastised me royally. Somebody from up north flew me down to Pretoria the following afternoon and unfortunately, it was now my deserved punishment to sit restlessly in front of an overweight man sporting a hideous orange-and–purple-speckled tie who supposedly represented the United States of America.
“I think,” Mr. Dobbs said, “that you have been rather foolhardy to travel alone in South Africa as a single young woman.”
His second chin with its unceasing wobble distracted me from his fatherly words. I tried to focus.
“I wasn’t aware,” I said quietly, “of a travel advisory issued for single young women visiting Africa.”
He scowled. “No, though any reputable travel agent would have suggested that you join a tour instead of traveling unescorted.”
“I was not unescorted. I was traveling with one of Southern Africa’s best rangers.”
“Yes. It was indeed fortuitous that Mr. Leigh located you after that violent hijacking. But to rent a jeep by yourself, unaccompanied… what could your travel agent have been thinking? There are all sorts of wonderful cruises, tours, Club Meds in Mauritius to be had. It was simply foolhardy! You’re lucky to be alive. Thank God I’m here to sort all this mess out. It’s regrettable about the deceased. The military here are more inclined to shoot first and ask questions later. You’ll be happy to know, however, that there’ll be no complications with the South African government regarding your involvement to worry about.”
Thoroughly chastised, I fidgeted as my bloated compatriot wrote furiously, his government-issued pen flying over the bureaucratically long paper. Form UTW (only used for unaccompanied truant women) proved a monumental task, and he bit his lip. Mr. Dobb’s balding head, starched white shirt, and pained expression made him a perfect candidate for a poignant rem
ake of an outdated fifties sitcom. His stance and slightly vacant expression indicated how annoying the embassy employee really thought my dilemma was.
“When will I receive my duplicate passport?” I asked.
Mr. Dobbs clucked sympathetically under his tongue.
“You know, after 9/11 we have had to send all our passports to the National Passport Center back in the States to be reissued. Of course we will place an Urgent tag on yours, but it will still take some time.”
“And Peter… Mr. Leigh… has his… his body been recovered?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Phillips. There’s been no word. As far as I know, SAPS is still searching for his remains.”
A thin Asian man had taken some hideous passport photos immediately after I’d filled out all the new forms, and whisked everything away without fanfare.
“And how will you be paying for this?” Mr. Dobbs asked, his pen poised as he leaned forward, double chin wobbling.
“My wallet, passport, camera, and jeep have been stolen. Consequently I have no money. How would you suggest I pay?”
He didn’t like my retort and his pale blue eyes narrowed. “You don’t remember your Visa card number and expiration date?”
“Ah… not off the top of my head.”
Mr. Dobbs seemed clearly affronted. I guess all travelers to South Africa are supposed to memorize the 800-number to their Visa card company in case they get hijacked. I’d put that on my to-do list right after I touched down on US soil again.
“I’ll arrange for the embassy to advance you some emergency cash then. René in accounts will help you with your Visa card. I’m afraid you’ll have to remain in Pretoria until your duplicate passport is available and your plane ticket can be changed.”
“How long will that take?” I asked.
“A week, ten days, who knows? Call us every day and we’ll update you on the progress. Have a good day.” I was dismissed. Stiffly I rose and pushed back my chair.
You’ve got to love bureaucracy! When all else fails, it continues to survive, just like the cockroach. However, I must admit that by the end of the day I did have some money, a place to stay, and the promise from a bored René that my Visa card would be DHL’d within the next couple days. I hid in my dark hotel room while I recuperated, grieved and checked the unblinking room phone for messages every ten minutes. I watched reruns of Oprah on satellite TV while sipping orange juice and eating scones. I couldn’t stomach anything else. After two shows, I have to admit that Oprah did more to revive in me the fact that I was an American than anything else.
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