While I held my breath, a trunk the width of a smokestack swooped down and swept the curious infant away. The calf trundled off to disappear among pillars of legs. An inaudible message must have vibrated through the herd because the elephants began moving slowly, noiselessly, away and into the night.
* * *
The next morning, I awoke to the chorus of birdsong heralding a new day—predawn trills, chirps, and warbles as effective as any alarm clock. I tumbled out of the van in pink light. The air was still cool and morning-fresh. If I hadn’t witnessed the elephants passing quietly in the night, I would have been shocked by what I found outside: trampled earth, crushed foliage, huge fresh tracks, and steaming piles of scat a single stride away from the thin metal walls of the van.
I stood in the spot where the calf had stood, reliving the thrill of our brief encounter. It came to me how vulnerable that small elephant and its relatives were, with fabulous bounties on their ivory tusks, their huge feet, and even the hair that tipped their tails. What were the chances those critically endangered animals would escape the scourge of poaching and grow to old age?
While dawn enflamed the horizon, I peeled and ate a hard-cooked egg, sliced an orange, and silently thanked Aunt Letty for the delicious cinnamon cake. But when I climbed behind the wheel of the van and started the engine, disturbing thoughts of elephant slaughter remained vivid in my mind.
My mood improved when the day opened to bright, temperate sunshine. I rolled down the windows and consulted the map, turning my thoughts to the landmarks that led from my current location to Motembo. The route Chiddy had sketched no longer relied on roads of any kind. I tried to ignore the unease I felt about traversing a dubiously scaled realm marked only by dotted lines between cartoonish drawings. At present, I was looking for a river that curved like an oxbow and held a pod of hippos.
I drove along the gully toward a scrim of dark foliage that looked to be riverine woodland. Staying on the open plain, I followed a thicket of brambles and trees that ran in a straight line for about a kilometer. Then the greenery made a wide curve, suggesting a change in the course of the river. I parked in the shade and picked my way down through crackling underbrush, aware that an elephant would make less noise. When I came within sight of the water, a dozen pairs of hippo eyes were already trained on me, each eye paired with a twiddling ear. The parts seemed to float on the surface, independent of the great, submerged bodies treading water below.
Encouraged by evidence that Chiddy’s crudely drawn map could actually lead me in the right direction, I turned my back on the wary pod and returned to the van. Proceeding south, I drove around the oxbow on relatively open turf outside the fringe of trees. I passed the stand of marulas my friend had drawn with special care, a salute to our celebratory drink of Amarula. Next, I was supposed to find a rain tree growing on an island in the river some distance away. But how would I locate an island from up on the ridge where I couldn’t see the water?
Even as I asked myself this question, I spotted a possible answer: a well-trod opening in the foliage, wide as a truck: the path worn by hippos going to and from their nocturnal grazing pastures. I brought the van to a halt in the shade of a flat-topped acacia tree—already the heat held a suffocating grip—and followed the track on foot down a gentle slope to a wide swath of floodplain. The shrunken river had created a dry and shady thoroughfare, solid as a road.
I walked along this corridor for a few minutes, wondering whether I should hike to the rain tree and exit the riverbed there to mark its location or go back to the van now and drive to the tree on the hard-packed floodplain. Chiddy’s drawing was inconclusive on this point. The dotted line clearly followed the river, but was I meant to drive in the riverbed or up on the open plain?
I paused for a moment in the emerald-green shade, watching a glossy ibis peck in the shallows. A pair of ducks plied the open water. Floods from an earlier deluge had eroded the riverbank to a mild slope that promised easy egress once I found the designated tree. The beach was firm and smooth, free of grass that could catch and ignite. Compared to the desiccating oven of the plain, this was a gentle, moist, welcoming paradise—surely the route Chiddy intended me to take.
A few minutes later, the damp fragrance of moss perfumed the air as I steered the van along the river’s margin. I felt cool and refreshed, pleased I had chosen this calm, sun-dappled course. Date palms leaned in on both sides. Flowering caper bushes lined the riverbank. Occasionally, the tires splashed through runnels of water that braided away from the main channel. Here I would not have to worry about an overheated engine or the peril of snagged combustibles.
As I passed a spreading leadwood tree, the riverbed turned dark with moisture. I noticed hoof marks in the soft earth and the trails of animals that had ventured in to drink. I downshifted, slowing to search for the driest way forward. Chiddy’s warning to avoid mud was never far from my mind. I shifted again and eased up on the clutch.
The tires bit and rolled ahead. A flock of blacksmith plovers scattered, calling tink-tink-tink. The chassis swayed and lurched. I was aiming for a wide swath of dry beach just ahead, beyond a few more meters of damp. I took a breath and stepped on the gas.
The van lunged like a pouncing animal and abruptly stopped, jerking me forward in my seat. I turned the wheel and spun the tires but succeeded only in churning up black spew on all sides, digging in further, killing the engine. The van bellied into sucking mud, marooned.
After the brief silence that followed, local residents made themselves known. The leadwood tree came alive with vervet monkeys leaping from branch to branch. A black-winged stilt worked its long red legs across the beach. A fat caterpillar dropped onto the windshield along with a clot of wet leaves welded together by decay. Nature seemed more than ready to close in and bury me.
I removed my shoes and socks and opened the door, relieved to find I wasn’t pinned inside. I stepped out. Pungent muck oozed between my toes, over my feet, and up my ankles. The van had sunk to the axles. I high-stepped through squelching mud to the winch mounted on the front. My lesson on getting unstuck was about to prove invaluable, as Chiddy must have known it would. I pulled on a pair of leather gloves. I was unspooling the winch cable when a faint snap of twigs made me look up. A man had emerged from the woods downriver. He was walking toward me.
At first, I felt too surprised to do more than stare. The man was twig-thin, with jaundiced eyes and corroded teeth. A silvery machete rested in his hand. Behind him, two younger men carried old, small-gauge rifles. They were not smiling.
Hunters who carried rifles and looked poor and hungry were as familiar to me as my own family. The men’s predatory air didn’t worry me as much as this sudden visitation in the middle of nowhere. Did they plan to rob me? Steal everything in the van? They were talking in low voices, speaking words I could not make out. The older one with the bad teeth suddenly grinned and gestured. I realized he was offering to help get me unstuck. So they could steal the van too? My schooling in the malfeasance of humans had eroded any charitable expectations I might have held. It came to me that a pack of wild dogs would alarm me less.
Before I could make a move, the men had reached me. One of them grabbed the winch cable from my hands, reeled it out, and strapped and hooked a date palm with the efficiency of a person who had performed similar ambushes many times. The old guy pointed at the driver’s side door, wanting me to get in. Did I have a choice? I climbed in, connected the winch control, and turned the key in the ignition. One light touch on the accelerator, and the van groaned and heaved. Two men pushed from the sides. Then, with a mighty gush, the tires rolled, the undercarriage came up for air, and the vehicle lurched to shore.
I felt like a fish reeled to dry land, panicked about what would happen next. The man in front took his time unhooking the cable and disconnecting the hook. At the speed of a side-necked turtle, he folded the strap into a neat coil and set it on the ground. The
line was respooling when he ambled toward me—and then past me. To my surprise, the two others were already striding away, back down the riverbed. I stared at them for a moment, unsure of their intentions. When all three were quite far away, I leaned out and yelled at their receding backsides. “Thank you!”
The old man raised a hand above his shoulder, but no one turned around. Only then, in hindsight, did I discern the kindness in the old man’s face and the admirable spirit of cooperation among the three men. With a stab of shame, I realized they were not unlike Baba and me. They were subsistence hunters, probably looking to feed themselves and their families—decent people ready to help a kid stuck in the mud. With a sigh, I eased the vehicle forward. I wondered whether I would ever see them again.
Some time later, I rounded a curve and came within view of Chiddy’s next signpost. The rain tree growing on the island signaled a turn to the east. Opposite the island, the gently sloping riverbank wore the flattened, exhausted look of a route well traveled by animals. I rotated the wheel and followed the trail out of the ravine, squinting as I emerged into the stare of the sun.
The lion hangout known as Three Flat Rocks showed itself vividly in the distance, a trio of dark granite slabs. Beyond the rocks, I made out what looked like the oddly branched tip of a very tall tree. The baobab? My excitement about the expedition—the prospect of visiting a safari camp and meeting real guides—burbled up once again. According to Chiddy, after passing the baobab, I would cross a stretch of hardpan and enter the woodland that sheltered Motembo. I was almost there.
But I made myself drive slowly, rumbling forward in low gear toward the great, boxy boulders. In the cauldron of midday, the lions that resided around Three Flat Rocks were probably asleep, invisible in the golden grass. Although heat freighted the air inside the van, I raised the windows almost all the way to the top.
Leaning toward the windshield, I studied every lump and bump in the flat, sunlit terrain. I hardly dared to blink. Chiddy had indicated a pride, probably five or six females, their young, and maybe a male. Females and cubs usually slept close together, almost in a pile. The male would be separate but nearby.
I was about even with the middle boulder when a honey-colored tail tipped with black popped up like a flag. I pressed on the brake. Another tail flipped up diagonally off my right front tire. I turned the wheel and eased away, squinting at the straw-colored turf. I drove so slowly that a blade of grass that had drifted onto the hood did not stir. Even as I sucked in hot air and felt the sweat streak down my face, I resisted the urge to go faster. Tracing a wide, slow arc around the lions took many minutes. I didn’t open the windows or breathe quite normally again until I had cleared the third boulder and could see Three Flat Rocks shrinking into the distance behind me.
With the windows down and fresh air filling my lungs, I drove as fast as I dared past the termite mounds and the thornberry bramble. Approaching the baobab, I eased up on the accelerator to stare at the biggest tree I had ever seen. The ancient trunk rose like a fortress. Multiple silver-gray columns had fused together to form a growth wide enough to hide an elephant. A tangle of surface roots snaked out in all directions. At the top were a dozen fat, forking branches, each one the circumference of a normal tree.
I parked in the shade of the giant limbs and got out. My cramped legs tingled as I stretched and bent my knees, eyeing the largest living thing I had ever seen. The tree’s fat, extruded roots formed ridges and canyons that made walking precarious. Placing each foot with care, I moved in for a closer look.
Animals had stripped away patches of bark, but the damage didn’t seem to have harmed the big galoot at all. I stepped past a series of columnar outgrowths as fat as water tanks. A curb-like root led to another circular wing skinned of bark. The exposed surface felt as smooth as sanded pine. A gathering of twittering Cape sparrows drew my attention upward. To my surprise they sat on a fig tree growing out sideways from the baobab about nine feet above my head. The interloper must have sprung from an airborne seed that had lodged in a crevasse and taken hold.
I had walked almost all the way around when I came upon the biggest surprise of all: a split in the trunk as wide as a door. Stepping cautiously, I peered through the opening. My eyes took a moment to adjust. The tree was empty, hollow, as if a colossal router had scraped out the insides. Multiple trunks had melded together over decades—centuries maybe. The result was a cool, humid interior that resembled a small round room with clean walls and a high ceiling. Somewhere far above my head, a shaft of light cast shadows on a colony of bats clinging to the upper reaches. The air inside smelled, not unpleasantly, of damp wood. It reminded me a little of Rotting House before Roop and I replaced the roof.
Although I had read about baobabs, I had never seen one. This goliath more than lived up to the legends: baobabs used as animal pens, post offices, even jails. I imagined sheltering inside the tree, building a gate of branches and a bed of leaves. Although I was tempted to step through the opening and investigate further, I made myself turn back. Midday sun and heat were pressing down. To reach Motembo in daylight, I needed to stay on track.
My clothes looked and smelled like I had slept in them because I had. I stood next to the van and peeled off every stitch. Using water from a jug and a sliver of soap, I showered under the gaze of the hornbill that had followed me all day. The bird clucked and cocked its head as if sizing up the naked specimen under the tree.
The safari guide I had once stared at through a window at school remained vivid in my mind. He had looked clean and groomed, wearing shorts with a matching shirt and very fine boots. After suffering through school without the proper uniform, I understood the importance of appropriate dress. Jackson Quinn would not expect me to be as well turned out as a safari guide. But like Mr. Kitwick, he very likely would notice if I arrived looking as though I had made no effort at all.
I dried myself with my T-shirt and put on clean shorts and a shirt that repeated washings had turned almost the same color. I didn’t own boots, but my newish sneakers looked presentable enough. I stuffed the dirty clothes in a bag and straightened the interior of the van. After a quick lunch of biltong, groundnuts, and a banana, I set out on the final leg of my journey.
12
MY HEART WAS BEATING IN sync with the tires as they thumped across the plank bridge. I had reached Motembo in good time. Sunlight dappled the mopane woodland and played on the rough-hewn signpost that marked the entrance. I swallowed hard, straightened up in my seat, and gripped the wheel tight.
The first person I saw was a long, skinny, round-headed man built along the lines of a lollipop. He was sweeping leaves from the floor of an open pavilion under a soaring, dramatically thatched roof higher than any I had ever seen. When he looked up, a grin split his face so readily that I knew he was expecting me.
He leaned the broom against a chair and stepped out. “You must be Bones. Welcome to Motembo.”
Bones? I liked it. Just like that, I had a new name.
“I’m Teaspoon.” He held out a hand. Instead of shaking the usual way, he gripped my wrist, so I gripped his. It felt solid, like a double knot.
“Like knife and fork?” I asked, hoping the question wasn’t rude.
He laughed, a surprisingly deep basso for such a slender guy. “Yes, like knife and fork. We all do a little of everything here, but I mostly set and wait tables, maintain the pavilion, and help in the kitchen.” He put on a serious face. “My name, though, comes from my sterling character.”
“I see,” I said, smiling as he grinned again.
“Would you like a bottle of water?”
Although I wasn’t thirsty, I accepted simply because I wanted to say yes rather than no to this agreeable man. He showed me where to park the van and, against my protestations, lifted out my duffel and carried it while I followed. We walked down a narrow path leading away from the pavilion. He pointed out a small structure on a slab of
cement. “The kitchen.” He then pointed to another. “The laundry.”
A little farther on, we passed several large canvas tents tall enough to enter standing upright. “This is where Jackson and his wife, Kiki, stay,” he said, pointing. “This one is for Luke and Jaleen. Newsom sleeps over there, and over there, Nate, the chef. We’re quite separate from the guest quarters, for everyone’s privacy.”
I realized that at least one or two of the people he had named must be actual safari guides. I nodded and surveyed the scene, trying not to look like an awestruck dope. When we arrived at the last tent, he swept aside the canvas door. “This is where I stay. I will be pleased to share with you.”
Inside were twin camp beds with fluffy quilts, bedside tables bearing shiny kerosene lanterns, shelves of neatly folded clothing, and a washstand and mirror. The window flaps had been rolled up to admit patchy sunshine and a slight breeze. The bedroom was nicer than my own room at home.
“Thank you for sharing. I’ll only be here a few days.”
“No worries.” He set my duffel on one of the beds. “The loo and the shower are that way.” He pointed through the window to a fork in the path. “Jackson and Kiki and most everyone else will be back in time for dinner, around six thirty. When the camp is empty, we dine early. Would you like to rest after your long journey?”
I was not sure what I had expected at Motembo, but to be treated so deferentially, like a guest, wasn’t it.
“I’m really not tired, Teaspoon. Could you show me where the bar is going to be? After that, maybe I can start putting together the beds.”
The Story of Bones Page 13