These people here love us so much that they have arranged some entertainment for us, Kriegman told them. Bring your drinks out onto the terrace.
They found that seating had been laid out for them on either side of the wooden deck, facing an empty central area. In the dark beyond the terrace, they heard muffled drumbeats and stamping. Then the drums picked up a steady, strong rhythm and a few moments later the dancers arrived.
It was an all female troupe; six girls dressed in traditional costume; headdresses, halter tops and short fringed skirts. They were barefoot but with ornate shakers strapped around their ankles. Two older women, more modestly dressed, followed them in while keeping up an insistent simple beat on the drum that each of them carried. The rhythm was stressed and embellished by the handclaps and foot stomps of the dancers, who began to chant in close harmony as they emerged into the performance space.
The dancers were all young girls but with a range of build; most of them with ample breasts and hips and some plumpness around the middle that suited their shiny black skin. The two taller ones were thinner, almost skinny, but their leader had the body of a dancer. She and another girl who looked like she might be a sister initiated the changes in the dance and took most of the solo parts between them. The lead girl had an incredible vocal range that she used to decorate the chanting with a variety of soprano bird screeches and calls, while her sister added the deeper click sounds to the harmony.
At first the response of Kriegman’s party was a little stiff, clapping along with the rhythms reluctantly and not quite in time. But the pieces were long and the movements involved. There was a kind of hypnotism to it. Before long they started to move and sway to the collective consciousness of the drumbeat.
It was clear to see that the women’s dances were intended to mirror aspects of village life. Some of their actions were unmistakably based on everyday domestic chores. Others had to do with husbands or lovers. Judging from the movements of the dance, village life included healthy amounts of sex. The pattern of each dance was the same: first a combination of chant, handclaps drums and stamping established the fundamental beat, then the girls would take their solos or duets, which became more intense as more complex rhythms began to spin off the underlying beat that was always present, punctuated by the vocal trills and birdlike calls of the main dancer.
The steps were steady and powerful; every stressed beat hit with the thump of a stamp and the rattle of the ankle shakers. The legs and hips were a constant sinuous ripple of muscle that moved in double time to the beat, in contrast to the slow movements of the arms and shoulders that were almost rigid. Head, neck and arm movements were sudden and dramatic, but without the rest of the body losing expression of the complex rhythmic flow.
The dance looked exhausting, but the girls didn’t sweat or seem fatigued. They shared smiles with each other between the songs as if they were dancing only for their own enjoyment, appreciating and encouraging each other’s efforts.
After the fourth or fifth dance, the drums picked up a slower, simpler beat and the young leader told them in halting English that the young girls of their party should join in with this next dance. Girls from the troupe shyly approached Jill and Emma and escorted them gently to the stage, where they joined the chorus, clapping and swaying as best they could.
This was a story dance and it became clear that the English girls were taking the part of novices; young girls who needed to be introduced to the skills of womanhood by their more experienced sisters. In turn they had to follow and mimic the actions of the leader, who mimed a variety of essential tasks. After they’d done that there was a change in the beat that demanded they move their hips more, which caused some good natured laughter on all sides. Clearly these were movements that symbolized a different kind of growing up and awakening. Then the main girl led each of them in turn away from the dance to where the drummers were sitting.
Emma was first. One of the older women had put down her drum, while the other still kept up the beat. Emma had to kneel in front of the old lady as she took both of Emma’s hands in her own and stared steadily and hard into her face. The lead dancer stood beside the old lady all the while and still the other dancers and the one drummer maintained the beat.
When the old lady had seen what she needed to see, she released Emma’s hands and beckoned to the lead dancer, who bent low to hear her whispered words as Emma stood up. Then the young girl whispered something to Emma before leading her back to the main group and then taking Jill over to the old lady where the same process was repeated.
Now that the English girls had completed their mime tasks and received the wisdom of a mother or grandmother, they were permitted to take their seats to warm applause and that dance finished soon after. Then the dancers launched into their final number which was even more spectacular and extended than what had gone before and finished to enthusiastic clapping and cheering.
What did you think of all that? Emma asked Jill later.
The two of them were tent buddies and they had finally settled into their sleeping bags for the night.
You mean the dance, Jill replied. It was strange. At first I thought it would be embarrassing. I mean it’s very much for the tourists I suppose; African tribal dancing. But then the girls seemed to be enjoying themselves and it was infectious. I don’t know if it was authentic still, but there was something about it anyway.
It was sexy though, wasn’t it?
Mm, yes.
Made me feel like I need a man.
I know which man you’re thinking of Emma.
You mean Jonathan? But he is gorgeous isn’t he? Quite a hunk. And he speaks to you in that so polite way but all the time he’s got those eyes that look at you like there’s something wicked and animal in them. As if he was dangerous.
Maybe he is dangerous Emma. Maybe you should be careful if you don’t want to be hurt.
Emma laughed.
Don’t worry about me mum. I’m on holiday remember. I can be with whoever I like if it’s only for a fortnight, can’t I?
Well you know what I mean. What did the old lady tell you about it?
Emma giggled.
Oh, you know. The usual fortune teller’s stuff. She said I’d meet a good man and a bad man and that I must be careful to know which was which.
Doesn’t sound too bad.
Except that I was hoping I might meet more than two men in my future.
You’re like a teenage girl. It must be the African sunsets. But why did you come here if you only want to meet men? That’s a different sort of holiday altogether.
Now Emma sighed.
I do love Africa; and I am quite independent you know. I’m here on my own aren’t I? Anyway I’m too old now for the sort of holidays you mean. The girls of my own age that I’d go with are all married with young kids. I’d be the desperate ageing nympho who gets sloshed every night on her own, propping up the bar.
You’d be snapped up in a minute and you know it.
Jill, you’d be surprised. Anyway, you haven’t told me what the old lady saw in your future yet.
She didn’t say much about the future. She told me that I was a strong woman, and that I should stop living the life of a weak woman.
Does that mean anything to you?
I’m not sure. Maybe.
They were quiet for a moment. Outside the tent, there was still some movement around the camp as the last of their party prepared to retire for the night.
Well, you know what I think about it, Emma said.
What?
I think the old lady just mumbles anything in whatever language they use; and the young girl pretends to translate it but really she tells you whatever seems to her to fit. She seemed pretty shrewd, that one. She had all the other girls organized and she could probably read the likes of you and I easily enough.
You’re not superstitious then?
I don’t think so, Emma replied. I mean, in the end our lives are not so very different from e
ach other’s are they? There’s just a few kinds of people and the same things go on happening to them; only the names and the small details change.
You don’t sound very satisfied with that.
I think maybe that is why I love Africa, Jill. When I’m here I at least have the feeling that all the normal rules don’t hold me anymore and maybe something unexpected could happen. I’d like that.
Perhaps, Jill replied. I’m going to sleep now anyway. You just remember what they say about being careful what you wish for in case you get it. Goodnight.
Chapter Eight - Day Seven
The days on the road quickly established a rhythm of their own. From the beginning, it was obvious to Julian that even if Kriegman sat in the boss’s seat, Michael was the one running the trip. It was he who answered the incessant questions about the lives and habitats of birds and mammals all the while keeping the Land Cruiser moving smoothly over terrain that was never less than difficult. At the same time he was watching out for signs of animals that were close but hard to spot in the scrub and woodland.
The black man had a strangely precise way of speaking, choosing his words carefully. Julian was reminded of the old duffer who´d tried to teach them Latin back at school, although, unlike Mr. Huddlestone, Michael didn’t have even a hint of a tremor in his voice; just a tiny inflection of accent and the occasional chuckle that was a surprisingly loud and uninhibited when it came. Julian decided that he wasn’t a bad sort really. It was a shame.
As soon as they’d entered the bush proper, Michael had become a different person, alert to everything. His eyes picked out every detail in the landscape. He’d slow the truck to walking pace to explain the meaning of tracks in the sandy soil that the rest of them hadn’t even seen were there. He showed them where the predators had been and what kind of prey they had been tracking; pointing out the difference between the tracks of leopard and hyena. There were always little pinpricks in the sand where the nails of dogs had been, but the cats kept their claws retracted until they were needed, rather like me, Julian thought to himself.
It seemed that for Michael, driving the Cruiser was just an extension of walking. As the roads became more difficult he piloted them through heavy drifts of sand that threatened to submerge the axles without seeming to pay much attention to his driving; his attention still fixed on the trail. Once or twice they did become temporarily stuck, but eventually Michael was always able to work the wheels free of the clinging sand that sucked at them, or else coax the truck over the low ridges that seemed too steep for the little traction they had; backing off to build up enough speed so that the momentum of their charge would carry them over the top and down the other side in a controlled slide.
Kriegman just sat there nodding his approval of it all; or from time to time he might say, yes those were hyena tracks all right. Julian doubted that the watery eyed guide was capable of spotting the imprint of a hyena claw even when it were pointed out to him, but even so he noticed that Michael showed the old man genuine respect, though there was nothing cringing or servile about their driver.
Julian kept chatting away to them and the others whenever there was the chance. He was gently probing all the time, interested to see which of them might fall out with the others; but when he tried to encourage Michael to say something critical about Kriegman, the response was surprising:
Don is an old white South African. His manner is brutal and he does not have the words to say what he feels, but he has a good spirit.
They were the most eloquent words Julian had heard Michael utter, but he filed them away for future reference reflecting that loyalty was just one more human failing that it was easy to exploit.
***
Only one more ridge to cross, Kriegman told them: and then they would be in the real savannah: but this ridge was not the easiest. The gradient was steeper than what they had become used to. Enough vehicles had passed this way before to carve the only track into deep parallel trenches that the winds and gravity had filled with light sand. On either side of this track, the bushes grew more densely than in the surrounding country, except where the elephants had bulldozed their own private paths. Only a narrow corridor was passable for vehicles.
Michael ran the Cruiser directly at the slope, though it seemed obvious that they would not cross the summit. They did manage to gain a good distance before the spinning wheels finally gave up purchase in the deep sand.
Michael eased back into neutral and then reverse. He kept the engine revving and sawed the steering wheel from side to side as they backed down the slope; half-rolling, half sliding. By the time he stopped they were back at the foot of the slope, but in front of them the track was now cut deeper and broader.
They took another charge at the slope. The result was the same; a little bit closer to the summit, but short. Before they reversed back again, Kriegmann spoke briefly to Michael and then turned to face the rest of them.
Okay, he said. Everyone except Mr. and Mrs. Johnson out here.
They climbed down from the truck. This was unusual, Julian thought. Normally Kriegman forbade any of them to leave the vehicle unless it was at a planned stop or for a toilet break. Even then he had them stay near the vehicle, like children who couldn’t be trusted. The unspoken assumption was that they’d be killed by hungry lions or crushed by rampaging elephants the moment they stepped out into the bush alone. Kriegman didn’t seem to trust his clients any more than if they had been children. In fact, Julian thought, he did think of them as children and he didn’t even make much effort to pretend he didn’t dislike them.
In any case, now they were standing by the side of the track, not far from the summit of the ridge, waiting for Michael to launch another assault on the slope.
When he gets to us here, he’ll be practically stopped, Kriegman told them. You three, climb on the back of the trailer and lean as far backwards as you can without falling off. We want more weight on the back to stop her just sliding around, but be careful. The rest of you, when he slows enough, you get in behind the truck and push with all you’ve got. I’ll give the word.
They heard the engine note change and the gears engage. The Cruiser picked up speed as it raced towards them. Then it was onto the steeper part of the slope. The engine began to complain and progress stopped matching the revolutions of the wheels as they tyres slipped. Precious speed dropped away rapidly on the short climb and by the time Michael had struggled up to their position, the Cruiser was hardly moving forward at all.
Now, Kriegman shouted, getting his own broad shoulder braced against the back of the truck.
They all did as they’d been told. The Cruiser battled to maintain forward momentum. For a moment, as the engine screamed, it felt to be slipping sideways, but then suddenly the worst of the gradient was over and Michael found some purchase for the wheels.
Leave it, Kriegman ordered.
The truck had no time to wait. Those making weight on the back of the trailer jumped down and the others stepped quickly out of the space between the trailer and the vehicle. Michael was picking up speed again now. He’d have to keep going hard over the top, where the sand was still deep and then skate down the other side a little before stopping for them at a place where he could be sure of getting started again.
Good job everyone, Kriegman told them.
Then they heard a sharp crack and the noise of the engine died away. All of them started to run after the vehicle.
As soon as they crossed the rise they could see what had happened. Just beyond the summit, the trunk of a medium sized tree lay across the track. It had been growing close to the trail and it was obvious that an elephant had recently decided to rip it out and make a snack of the roots, which were chewed away. The big, pan-flat tracks all around told their own story.
Michael would have seen the obstruction moments before he hit it, without much time to react in any way. The trunk was just slender enough and already partly buried in the sand, so that he’d see a chance to pa
ss over it with the speed he was carrying. There’d been just enough time to brake, but if he’d stopped their way would have been blocked by the tree, with no obvious way to get around it. Instead, Michael’s decision had been to keep going as hard as possible.
When they came to the Cruiser, a little further down the back slope, they could see that the vehicle had crashed over the trunk, doing some damage to the bull bars at the front, but more importantly twisting the right front wing of the vehicle upwards. The wheel arch was now pressed into the tyre, although the tyre itself seemed not to have punctured. The wing wasn’t so much crumpled as bent inwards.
The trailer was in worse shape. The lightweight frame and wheels had bounced over the tree easily enough, but the weight of the load coming down hard had snapped one of the suspension springs. Now the right side wheel was sticking out from the body of the trailer at a sad angle and the trailer itself was listing dangerously.
Michael was already out of the vehicle, examining the damage.
What do you think? Kriegman asked him.
Not good, Michael replied.
The two of them got to work, while the rest stood or sat around; the women concerned and the men trying hard not to feel useless. Andrew Parker observed the work closely, but even he seemed to know better than to offer helpful advice at this moment.
They’ve got a heavy jack, he reported. They’re trying to get it braced against the frame of the truck to bend the body back out to shape.
The process seemed to involve a good deal of physical heaving and straining and some colourful swearing from Kriegman. In between there appeared to be progress of sorts. After a while they took a break. Michael took a moment to make a closer inspection of the trailer and then he moved away from them a short way, for a private smoke. Kriegman came to join the others.
Is it still bad? Julian asked him cheerfully.
Kriegman spat into the sand before replying, but his voice sounded reasonable enough.
the Disappearance of Jonathan Bloom Page 7