I drove us to the trees bordering the river, where he directed me down a trampled gash in the foliage. When I stopped at the edge of a glistening, silt-clogged bog, he gestured for me to drive straight in. I looked at him, eyebrows raised. Really?
He nodded. I swallowed, gripped the wheel, and rolled forward.
We had moved less than a Cruiser’s length when the mud sucked and held us like a living, grasping thing. For a moment, all four tires whirled in place, kicking up a viscous spray that I knew I would have to scrub off the sides of the vehicle later that day—if we ever got out. I shifted into reverse but succeeded only in digging us in deeper. Then I tried rocking forward, reverse, and forward, also without success. Finally, I took my foot off the accelerator, defeated. The Cruiser came to rest in the mud. It was my first test, and I had failed.
“Good,” Jackson said, grinning. “Now winch us out.”
Oh. Apparently, I hadn’t failed yet. I silently thanked Chiddy for teaching me how to use a winch. I had also studied the procedure in my guide manual and watched Good Sam’s sons winch my van from the mud. But I had never pulled a vehicle out alone. I rolled up the legs of my khakis and, saying goodbye to the newish sheen on my boots, stepped into the ooze.
Slogging my way to the front, I kept an eye out for snakes. I remembered to slip on a pair of leather gloves, step one. Steps two, three, four, and five were taking shape in my mind as I scanned the opposite bank. A sturdy tree located straight ahead looked like a worthy anchor. I gripped the hook and the winch strap and walked out the cable. Jackson was reading, apparently going over the list of skills I needed to prove. He appeared relaxed and patient. If this had been a game drive, four passengers in various states of alarm would be sitting up with their eyes fixed on me. I practiced acting more confident than I felt.
With only a modest amount of fumbling and backtracking, I got the Cruiser hooked up and ready to go. I slid in behind the steering wheel and used just enough engine power to help the winch roll the tires forward. When we reached solid ground, I hopped out again, jubilant, trying not to show how relieved I felt. I quickly respooled the cable and stowed the strap. When I climbed back in and turned the key, the engine sprang back to life. I said silent thank-yous to the Cruiser, to the excellent winch, and to the hardworking battery.
Jackson made a note on the report card, or whatever he had clipped to the board. “Well done. Now drive that way,” he said, pointing.
We entered a small clearing, where he told me to turn around and drive back the way we had come.
“Toward the river?”
He nodded.
At the edge of the muddy flats, I stepped on the brake and looked at him, uncertain. “What now?”
“Drive in.”
“Again?” I couldn’t hide my dismay.
He tilted his head toward the abyss. “Drive in.”
I sighed and plunged us back into the muck. I tried every strategy I could think of to maneuver the vehicle across the sucking mess without getting stuck. But once again the tires spun, the mud flew up, and we came to a dead stop in a nightmare of sludgy ooze. I eyed Jackson, wondering if he was such a nice guy after all.
“Now get us out without using the winch.”
“Without using the winch,” I repeated, letting the words sink in. How the fuck am I supposed to do that? I nodded. “Okay.”
I got out, my mud-encrusted boots too far gone to worry about. High-stepping from tire to tire, I muscled my way forward. The strain on my calves and thighs felt like a hot iron. Each wheel had sunk about halfway down. A semiputrid algae smell wafted up from the mire. A company of insects flew in for a look. The vehicle had come to rest more than three meters from firm ground on the opposite shore.
Vegetation lined the riverbank, much of it broken and flattened by the hooves of animals coming to drink. I spent the next half hour gathering dry limbs to use for traction. Jackson sat back in his seat with his hat tilted down over his eyes. Was he asleep? Evidently, he expected this to take a while.
My job would have been easier if I could have used the jack to raise the front tires. But with no firm surface on which to rest the frame, the jack was useless. I wedged as much material under the tires as I could wrestle down and under through the mud. Dark sludge coated my forearms and shins. I peeled off a leech. Sweat soaked my spattered shirt. I thought about Jaleen and the sorry job of laundering she was going to face.
When I had done all I could to shore up the tires, I made a few more trips to gather wood and laid a thick mat of interlocking branches from the Cruiser to the shore. A small flock of blacksmith plovers moved in to peck invertebrates from the displaced mud. Downstream, a magnificently horned sable ankled into clear water for a drink. When I returned to the driver’s seat and cranked the engine, the sable and the birds startled and fled.
“Looks good so far.” Jackson had lifted his hat and leaned forward to inspect my work. “What else could you do to improve traction?”
“Reduce the air pressure in the tires?”
“Right. Let’s try without that first.”
I pressed lightly on the accelerator, rocking my body forward, willing the tires to grab. They spun. I let up and then pressed again. Something underneath took hold, and the Cruiser lurched forward a foot or two. I gave it more gas, and we shot ahead, rocking and rolling across the branches and sticks all the way to solid ground.
I’d had about enough of the river for one day, so I was glad when Jackson directed me toward camp. We took our time getting there, though. On the way, he made me stop and change a tire. Then he made me change the spare tire back to the original. He opened the hood and drilled me on basic mechanics. Then he got out the first aid kit and asked about the uses for each item inside. By the time we trundled across the bridge to Motembo, I was covered in dried mud and ready to drop from fatigue. The good news: Jackson had ticked off an entire column of items on his list.
Over the next several days, he took me out and tested me on tracking, birding, wildlife photography, navigation, and survival skills. In the evenings, we left the campfire for a good look at the night sky. I identified constellations, planets, and satellites. One night he asked, “How much gin goes into a gin and tonic?”
I was about to answer when he grinned. “That’s a joke, Bones.” He waved a sheaf of papers marked with checks and comments. “We’ve covered all the requirements, and you passed every test. As your on-job trainer, I am authorized to pronounce you qualified. The paperwork will take a few weeks, but for now, congratulations. You are a certified professional safari guide.”
* * *
We were entering peak season when Jackson assigned me four guests from the United States: an orthopedist, his wife, and a younger couple. By then I was familiar with the casual ways of Americans, so I tried to remember and use their first names. Out of respect for his age and position, I addressed the physician as “Dr. Griff.” The others were Nina, Todd, and Abby. I learned the four had previously traveled together to professional conferences on sports medicine. Todd was a distance runner with expertise in physiology and the engineering of high-performance athletic shoes. All four appeared physically able, comfortable with each other and the outdoors, and excited about their first African adventure. I anticipated a smooth and enjoyable three days.
Our first game drives took us far from the river, to the sectors that included Little Serengeti and RIP Gulch. Game viewing was spectacular on the dry, open grassland. The guests gave me too much credit for tracking animals that simply lived there, out in the open. Dr. Griff, the most avid photographer in the group, captured interesting images of giraffes, zebras, and Cape buffalos. Impalas were so numerous that he soon ignored them.
Nina, Griff’s wife, was a good spotter even without binoculars. She pointed out several varieties of raptors circling overhead and was the first to see a distant bushbuck and a small herd of tsessebe grazing o
n the fringes. Of the four, Nina seemed the most reflective and the most attuned to the sensory pleasures of the bush—the sounds, sights, and smells. She brought to mind a researcher cataloging the feel of intense solar heat or the taste of the dust and microscopic vegetable matter that salted the open air. While Dr. Griff scrambled to take photos, she sat very still, watchful and contemplative, carried away on the back of a galloping intellect.
The other female was an un-self-conscious beauty who taught middle school and must have dealt with numerous crushes akin to khaki fever. For a knockout, Abby was remarkably natural and unaffected. She struck me as a paragon of organization too, the mother lode of preparedness. Every day she showed up looking as if she had consulted a very thorough list and confirmed her readiness with checkmarks. Wide-brim hat with chin strap, check. Polarized sunglasses, check. Multipocketed vest bulging with essential tubes and packets, check. Binoculars, water, long sleeves, long pants, sturdy boots, and socks, check, check, check, check, check, check.
What was on her mind, admirably, was safety—and, as I soon discovered, the potential for danger in just about every creature she saw. She leaned into Todd for protection when we slowed to view baboons, warthogs, and even a lone waterbuck. When RIP Gulch yielded a leopard lounging on a tree limb, I felt a tap on my shoulder. “This is close enough,” she whispered.
I stepped on the brake, thankful that Dr. Griff’s long lens would be sufficient for a close-up.
Abby’s caution stood in stark contrast to the barely contained energy of her boyfriend, Todd, the long-distance runner. I had guided his type before—a superbly conditioned athlete who chafed at the restrictions imposed for safety’s sake on all guests in the bush. A body accustomed to exercise suffers in its absence. I knew this and encouraged Todd to use the jump rope, mats, and weights we stored in a chest behind the bar. He took a look at them. But during the hot midday hours in camp, instead of working out in the pavilion, he retreated with Abby to their tent and wasn’t seen again until afternoon tea. I really didn’t blame him. In Todd’s shoes, I would have stayed with Abby too.
On their third and final night at Motembo, the staff surprised the Americans with a private bush dinner in a clearing under the night sky. A previous bush dinner with the full complement of visitors had been a surprise too. But no one in this group had expected a second, intimate version of that exceptional experience. Although tonight’s location was a short walk from the pavilion, dense foliage, a small hill, and a canopy of darkness shielded the clearing from any hint of civilization. I drove the unsuspecting foursome there on a circuitous route at the end of our evening game drive, adding to the illusion that we remained deep in the untamed wilderness.
When we arrived, the campfire cast a warm, dancing circle of light. Teaspoon had set up a makeshift bar and was pouring flutes of sparkling wine. A dining table covered in white seemed weightless, an apparition afloat in the glow of a dozen candles. While the guests oohed and exclaimed, I noticed Good Sam and his sons quietly patrolling the shadowy fringes, rifles in hand. There would be no party crashers here, human or otherwise.
Nate presented another excellent, multicourse meal. I sat at one end of the table, with Nina and Dr. Griff on my right and Abby and Todd on my left. They were all chatty and in good spirits, excited about their final game drive the following morning. We had saved the riverine corridor for last.
Dr. Griff said he wanted a good photo of a hippo with its mouth wide-open. Nina hoped to spot a crocodile and a monitor lizard. I made a pitch for the rich variety of waterbirds we were likely to see. Casting aside caution about managing expectations, I added that we might encounter the ornery bachelor Cape buffalo that hung out in the ravine.
Teaspoon was pouring coffee in my cup when he leaned forward and whispered, “Jackson wants a word.”
I excused myself and left the table. My boss was standing behind the bar, holding a long-range radio. “I just heard from Marks,” he said in a low voice. “He’s on poacher patrol across the river. Spotters have seen campfires and tire tracks over there. They’re checking it out.”
“How far away?”
“For now, far enough west not to alter your plans. I know you’re headed to the river tomorrow. Before you get too close, I want you to check with Good Sam. He’ll be at the blind, keeping an eye on the ravine. He doesn’t use a radio, you know, because the signal there is poor. You’ll have to walk in to see him. If he gives the all clear, you can go back and complete your drive as planned.”
“Otherwise?”
“Choose another sector.” He tipped his head toward the table. “Best not to share too much with them about armed criminals.”
I took in his words and his reasoning. But I recoiled at the idea of disappointing guests who were so eager to visit the river. Even leaving them alone while I checked with Good Sam would violate my training, wouldn’t it? I wanted to question Jackson and protest, but he had already turned away and was walking toward camp. Surely he knew poachers weren’t interested in us. On the contrary, they would take great pains not to be seen.
I was building up a head of steamy umbrage when my thoughts shifted to Marks, my future brother-in-law, out in the dark with a backpack, a rifle, and two or three sketchily trained rangers. He could be facing men who wouldn’t think twice about shooting him, poachers who would do anything for tusk or horn. With shame I realized how warped my thinking had become. Marks was risking his life to protect Motembo’s wildlife while I worried about leaving guests alone for ten minutes and about the possibility of disappointing them.
I glanced toward the four at the table. They were laughing at something Nina had said. In our two days together I had come to know this group rather well. They were intelligent and cooperative, experienced travelers capable of withstanding a change in plan. Abby could be skittish, but more than once she had revealed deep reservoirs of self-control and common sense. I believed she could withstand a few minutes in the Cruiser without a guide. I worried most about Todd, a tight coil of energy who could become a handful. My hike to the river and back would have to be quick. If Good Sam discerned signs of trouble and advised me not to drive there, I would think up an interesting detour, something new and photogenic. It wouldn’t be the end of the world.
I cast a squint at Good Sam standing deep in the shadows. As always, he was being careful to remain out of sight. It seemed unfair, a serious screwup by Mother Nature, that such a caring man was burdened by such an off-putting appearance. I smiled and nodded. He grinned and raised a hand. I saw a flash of disorderly teeth and biceps like shredded chicken. In spite of his age and wear, Good Sam possessed the vision of a fish eagle. I waved back, hoping those steely, bloodshot eyes would spot nothing out of the ordinary anytime soon.
23
THE AIR HELD A BITE as we drove out of camp the following morning. The sun had barely edged into view. Like a starter’s pistol, the first ray of light set off a chorus of birdcalls competing for notice against the bluing sky. I leaned out to read the morning news: fresh tracks that crisscrossed the earth in all directions. Lucid, muddled, or violently scrambled, new prints at dawn told the story of a nocturnal world churning with life.
Abby and Todd sat in the seat behind me. Nina and Dr. Griff huddled on the higher bench. They all wore zipped-up jackets they would shed within the hour. I could feel their anticipation, the excitement that rides on every game drive heading out of camp. Whatever happened on my final morning with them, I would do my best not to disappoint.
Jackson had heard nothing from Marks since the previous evening. He told me he had radioed for an update but had failed to make contact. “He probably followed the poachers out of range, into a canyon or beyond the hills over there,” he said, tilting his head. “Either scenario bodes well for your trip to the river.” With a stern look he added, “But they also could have moved closer, into the ravine. Anything is possible. Don’t drive in without checking first with Sam
.”
I nodded my assent.
“Luke, Kiki, and I are going to meet twelve new guests at the airstrip. We’re taking them on a tour of the village and a school. We’ll be out of contact most of the day. Newsom’s off, so you’re on your own. Your guests’ luggage will be delivered to the plane, due at noon. Give them a good sendoff.”
“No problem.”
Considering the uncertainties ahead, I planned to engineer something thrilling prior to my recon with Good Sam—lions, if possible. The females and cubs that frequented Three Flat Rocks would do. Even better would be the coalition of males Luke had spotted roaming the sector—three magnificently maned subadults. The trio had arrived to hunt and bulk up before competing to mate with the local pride. Judging by the clarity of the morning news, the lions wouldn’t be difficult to find.
After a good look at the tracks around camp, I drove away fast, speeding over flats and rises, brambles and rocks. A speedy getaway, I had learned, added to the sense of excitement and purpose. The guests hung on, ready for anything. As we approached Three Flat Rocks, I slowed to steer the Cruiser in a wide, deliberate arc. When I leaned out to examine new prints in the dust, no one said a word. By then they knew what tracking looked like and the likely reward at its end.
The male lions turned up about half a kilometer south of the rocks. We found them resting in the grass, panting, their muzzles stained dark with the blood of a recent kill. Two of them raised their heads to look at us. The third didn’t bother. They all appeared weighted down, hypermetabolic, pinned in place by hugely swollen bellies.
I parked about six meters from the lions and turned off the engine. I heard rapid, nervous breathing from Abby behind me. I imitated the posture I had learned from Luke, swinging one arm over the back of my seat to convey relaxed confidence while keeping a close eye on the kings of beasts. Nina and Todd sounded appropriately awed. Dr. Griff’s camera clicked several times. I said a few words about male coalitions. Abby grew so quiet that I turned to make sure she was conscious. She darted a frantic glance from me to the lions, as though they might pounce the second I looked away. Guessing she’d had enough, I fired the engine and backed off. Lions were an excellent start. So far, no one had even mentioned the river.
The Story of Bones Page 24