Far Horizon (17 page)

By the time they returned to Pretoriuskop it was midday. The truck was quiet, and the mood was not helped by the fact that they saw virtually no game on the drive back, save for a small herd of impala and a leopard tortoise. The morning had been cool and overcast, but the sky was now a cloudless blue and the temperature was nudging thirty-five degrees Centigrade.

Sarah sat in icy silence next to Mike all the way from Skukuza. He guessed what was going through her mind, but she didn't say a single word during the return drive. She flicked through her notebook occasionally, checked her camera often, and stared fixedly through the windscreen.

As they climbed down from the truck at the site, Mike said, ‘There's a swimming pool on the other side of the camp. It's a nice day for a dip and we could all use a little cooling off.'

There were a few murmurs of thanks and appreciation, but not enough for his liking. Tension was mounting and, in this heat, he knew it wouldn't be
long before it erupted. Most of the group began drifting off to their tents to change, but Terry, George and Linda were standing in a huddle. Every now and then they pointed in the direction of Nigel's tent. Mike climbed into the truck to change into his swimming trunks, but only got as far as unzipping his kitbag when he heard angry voices.

‘You stupid Kiwi prick. I'm going to fucking do you! Right fucking now!' It was Terry.

Mike jogged across to the tents and saw that all eyes were on the Englishman, who was standing outside Nigel's tent. George stood behind Terry, who was red-faced with rage.

‘Come out, you fucking coward,' Terry shouted.

Nigel emerged from his tent defiant. ‘What, can't take a joke, eh? Typical bloody pom. Just chill out, will you.'

As much as Mike wanted to hang back and let nature take its course, he found himself leaping guy-ropes and striding across the little clearing at the centre of the tents. Sam, too, was on an interception course for the two men.

‘You could have killed me!' Terry screamed. He lashed out with his right fist and landed a blow on Nigel's jaw. Nigel lurched back, raising his arms to shield his face.

‘Get him, Terry,' said Linda.

‘Enough,' Mike said. ‘Cool it. The rest of you back off.' He stepped between Terry and Nigel and held up an open palm to the Englishman's fist. Nigel jabbed around Mike with his left, catching Terry in the stomach.

‘Gutless bastard,' Terry gasped, but he held his punches.

‘I said
enough
!' Mike repeated, rounding on the dark-haired New Zealander.

‘This isn't the way, guys. Just leave it be,' Sam said. He was at Mike's back.

Good kid, Mike thought. He chided himself for being surprised that the American boy had the guts to step in and break up a fight.

‘Nigel,' Mike said, ‘apologise to Terry.' The way he said it let Nigel know it was an order, not a request. Mike guessed that he would back down, for he believed Nigel was a coward.

‘All right,' Nigel said, after a moment's pause. ‘I'm sorry I grabbed you. It was just meant to be a joke, OK?'

Terry did not look convinced, and shook his head.

‘Terry,' Mike said, turning to him and speaking softly, so only he and Sam could hear, ‘you shouldn't have been leaning outside the truck and Nigel shouldn't have been messing around. Let's call it quits, OK? Help me out on this one.'

Terry hesitated a moment, then nodded his head.

‘Thanks,' Mike said, and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Nigel, shake,' he ordered. Nigel obeyed.

‘OK,' Mike said, turning to the assembled audience. ‘Pool time. I'll pick up some munchies and some beers for lunch on the way.'

‘Now you're talking,' said Mel.

‘Well done, Mike,' said Jane Muir, smiling. He smiled back.

The rest of the crew got changed and drifted off to
the pool, but Jane Muir hung back. She had changed into a one-piece black bathing suit with a plunging neckline. Around her waist she wore a wraparound skirt with the same elephant motif as her singlet top.

‘Can I help you with the shopping?' she asked.

‘Thanks. Nice skirt, by the way. Where'd you get it, Thailand?' Mike asked.

‘Thanks for noticing. Laos, actually. Julie and I were there last year.'

She was standing close to him now and he could smell her perfume – a faint musky smell that jump-started several of his nerve endings.

‘Do you travel together often?' he asked, as they walked across the lawns between the
rondavels
, towards the camp shop.

‘We've been on a few trips. Greece and Turkey, as well as Thailand. It's not as odd as it seems, you know. We genuinely get on, unlike most mothers and daughters. She hasn't accused me of cramping her style yet.'

‘What about the other way around?' he asked.

Jane laughed. ‘I could show her a thing or two. Still a few years left in this old girl. We have a laugh, but I do like to look out for her. She's all I've got.'

She was an attractive woman – vivacious and friendly as well. Mike found it was a nice change talking to someone who wasn't half his age.

The camp shop was a cool haven stocked with souvenirs, books and food staples. Mike put three six-packs of Lion beer and half-a-dozen packets of crisps into the plastic shopping basket as they walked up and down the aisles.

‘What do you think?' asked Jane from the next aisle.

Mike looked up from the magazine rack and saw she had tried on a pair of black wraparound sunglasses. The triangular tag bounced on her turned-up nose.

‘Very stylish,' he said.

‘Not sexy?' she replied, smiling.

‘The tag doesn't do it for me.' He believed this woman was flirting with him. He smiled back at her.

‘Well, I'll just have to snip the tag off then, won't I,' she said, and winked at him when she removed the glasses. ‘I'll take them,' she said to the woman working behind the counter.

They walked to the pool in a companionable silence, no more flirting for the time being, although every now and then Jane's hand seemed to brush his as she swung her shopping bag. She spotted a blue-headed lizard basking on the side of a fig tree and, when she pointed it out to him, she laid a hand on his forearm. Mike remembered Rian's golden rule and decided it was probably the golden rule for a very good reason. But then, he told himself, all rules were made to be broken.

They arrived at the pool to find the rest of the crew sitting in the shade or sunbathing. As usual, Mike noticed cliques were already developing. The Pretoriuskop pool was his favourite in the park. It was built on the site of a natural spring-fed waterhole and incorporated a large granite rock that was half in and half out of the water.

Nigel was by himself, basking on the top of the
rock like a lizard. Terry and George had stopped by the shop on their way and were already into a couple of beers. They sat in the shallow end sipping Castles from the can and throwing their soccer ball to each other. An old Afrikaner couple watched them with ill-concealed loathing. In other circumstances Mike would have told the boys to tone it down a bit, including their language, which was a bit crude at times, but for the moment he was just glad none of the passengers were hitting each other.

Jane left him and walked over to Julie, who was lying on her belly on a towel on the grass. Mike left the beers and the chips with Sam and wandered over to Sarah, who was sitting on her own on a green park bench under a big, shady marula tree. She was reading a glossy South African travel magazine he'd seen on sale in the camp shop. She looked up when she saw him approaching, but there was no welcoming smile.

He couldn't quite read her face. It was a mixture of suspicion, the usual disdain, and puzzlement. ‘How's things?' he asked.

‘You weren't happy about me taking pictures this morning, were you?' she said.

‘It was a tense situation. Terry was at risk. Taking snapshots didn't help the rescue effort.'

‘It would be very embarrassing, wouldn't it, if my magazine published pictures of one of your tourists falling out of the truck and nearly being eaten by a lion?'

‘It would be more embarrassing if the lion had actually got him and not his shoe,' Mike said.

‘But it would reflect badly on you. You might lose your job, your licence or accreditation, or whatever qualification you have. That's what worried you, wasn't it?'

‘You've seen our brochures. We tell our customers we'll get them close to Africa's wildlife,' he replied.

She didn't smile. ‘I had the roll of film in my camera developed at Skukuza this morning while the others were buying their naff souvenirs. Do you know what I saw when I got that roll of film back from the photo shop?'

‘No,' he lied.

‘I wonder if you do. Nothing. Nothing is what I saw. It seems the entire film was blank. I was quite terse with the man behind the counter, you know.'

He could picture her being quite terse. ‘I can imagine.'

‘He suggested maybe I had given him an unexposed roll by mistake, instead of an exposed roll.'

‘Possible,' Mike said.

‘Impossible,' she said, staring into his eyes.

Fortunately he was wearing sunglasses. ‘Not much of a story without pictures, I suppose,' he said. Her eyes were cold, as he'd noticed before, but they were also captivating.

‘I had pictures on that roll of you dragging Terry back into that truck, not to mention some very nice pictures of the mating lions. Pictures can be used selectively, and can tell a story in any number of ways. A cock-up can be made to look like an act of bravery,' she said.

‘But we'll never know now, will we, how you would have used those pictures.'

‘No. And I'll never know just what went wrong with my camera today. But if I find out, I'll be sure and let you know.'

‘Thanks,' he said, turning to leave.

‘And Mike,' she called. He turned. ‘If it turns out someone tampered with my camera, I'd make sure their employer was informed. Ham-fisted attempts at censorship would probably add a nice angle to my story, in fact. Pictures or no pictures.'

Mike nodded and walked back to where the rest of the party had descended on the chips like a flock of vultures. The film canister in his left breast pocket felt like a lead weight around his neck.

M
ike drove the overland truck north from Pretoriuskop to Satara Camp, where the group stopped for lunch. Storm clouds were gathering in the hills around Pretoriuskop and he was glad they packed when they did. The canvas tents used on the tours were strong and durable, but not as waterproof as the cheaper, lighter, nylon version. The last thing any of the touchy tourists needed now was a night in damp sleeping bags.

On the drive north he spotted a trio of cheetah crossing the road as they neared the Paul Kruger Tablets, a couple of plaques commemorating the founding of the park, stuck on to an enormous boulder. The mother cheetah and her two grown cubs scooted past the vehicle warily. One of the cubs was a little curious and stayed for a few moments in the long grass after he had crossed the road, crouched low and giving the truck a good once over before his mother gave a little squeak and he bounded off to join her.

From Satara they continued north to Letaba, a beautiful camp teeming with bird and animal life of its own and richly entwined in thick, dark green tropical plants and trees. Bushbuck, small antelope with delicate features and milk-chocolate coats painted with chalky stripes, wandered among the huts, and elephant drank or browsed in the riverbed below the camp.

While the rest of the group adjourned to cold drinks and hot pies at the restaurant overlooking the broad Letaba River, Mike wandered over to the Elephant Hall, a museum where park visitors could learn virtually everything there was to know about the mighty pachyderms.

The museum was air-conditioned, cool and inviting. A young brunette woman in a sleeveless National Parks uniform seated at the reception desk smiled at Mike as he entered. Around the wall were pictures of Kruger's original magnificent seven, the biggest tuskers in South Africa – probably in all of Africa – along with their actual tusks. There were also displays on poaching and anti-poaching, including an information panel on Fanie Theron's Animal Protection Unit, and photographs of the significant bulls still alive in the park today plus a few that were recently deceased. Mike finally found Skukuza's picture, the second last near the exit door.

The elephant was not as Mike remembered him, with his ears back, trunk down, bleeding and bellowing. Instead, his photo showed him grazing contentedly at a waterhole at the foot of the Lebombo Hills, which follow the Mozambican border. Mike
wondered if the poachers who killed him had stood in this exact same spot and chosen the old bull because of the information thoughtfully provided by the well-meaning architects of the Elephant Hall.

‘Skukuza can often be seen in the area around the Grootvlei waterhole, in the north-east of the park,' read the information panel below his picture. And perhaps this further gem of information had sealed his fate: ‘Most elephants favour one tusk over the other – this is sometimes referred to as the “working tusk” and is usually significantly shorter than the other as it has been worn down over a number of years. Skukuza is one of a small percentage of “ambidextrous” elephants who use both tusks. This accounts for the fact that both of his magnificent tusks are of equal length and diameter.'

Below the original information panel, which had yellowed with time, was a new laminated sign printed on white paper. It read: ‘Sadly, Skukuza was killed by poachers, believed to be from Mozambique. His tusks were stolen and have yet to be recovered.' There was nothing about the Mozambican ranger who was killed as well, and Mike was angry that the National Parks officials seemed too keen to blame the elephant's death on some dirt-poor villager from a neighbouring country. If Fanie's theory was right, Skukuza was killed by a highly organised gang, possibly from this very country.

Mike remembered the dust and the overpowering smell of the bull elephant as he thundered down the track towards him and Carlos. He felt the recoil of the AK-47 in his shoulder again and he recalled the blind
panic as the firing pin clicked on the nothingness of the empty chamber. He remembered Carlos turning to him and then falling onto the uncovered landmine. Mike reached out to the picture and touched the spot on the elephant's big knobbly forehead where he had seen his bullet strike. He closed his eyes and let the memories wash over him.

When he opened them and turned for the door, Mike saw Sarah standing there. She looked at him for a long moment and seemed about to say something, then thought better of it. She turned and wandered off to look at an information display with a cross-section of an elephant's foot.

Mike walked out into the lengthening afternoon shadows and put his sunglasses on. He was grateful she hadn't spoken.

They continued their journey the following day, on the good tar road that ran the length of the park, through kilometre after kilometre of shoulder-high bush. Big fires had swept through this part of the park in recent months, and nature was busily re-establishing the endless mopani forests. Here and there big bull elephants stuck incongruously up out of the juvenile trees, silhouetted black against the red-gold dawn sky.

North of Mopani Camp, Mike stopped the truck beside a large man-made boulder with a plaque fixed to it.

‘What's this, then?' George asked from the back of the truck.

‘The Tropic of Capricorn,' Mike said.

A couple of the tourists dutifully took photos and Kylie tried to explain to Linda where the Tropic of Capricorn passed through Queensland in Australia. Mike stared out to the east, towards Mozambique, and remembered a morning of death and the end of a dream that took place on the same arbitrary line drawn on a map.

‘Can you see anything out there?' Sarah asked.

‘Nothing. Nothing at all,' he said, as he put the truck into gear.

They stopped that night at Shingwedzi Camp, on the river of the same name, in the far north of the Kruger park. Mike parked the truck under an umbrella thorn tree, close to the swimming pool at the far end of the camping ground; he then spent a hot, frustrating hour banging in tent pegs, and bending a few in the process, into hard-baked earth. The name ‘Shingwedzi' means ‘place of ironstone'. The name was a good one, he thought, as he wiped the sweat from his face and swung the hammer again.

The overlanders compensated for their lack of success in finding a leopard with early drinks around the camp's swimming pool, where Mike gratefully sluiced off his midday sweat. Dinner that night was a hearty
braai
of steak and sausages, foil-wrapped baked potatoes and salads. Mike found he was getting on well with everyone, except for Nigel and Sarah, who both gave him a wide berth. But then, they gave everyone a wide berth.

When the two outsiders retreated to their tents, the mood of the group always relaxed noticeably. They
were seated around a blazing campfire, nursing drinks and laughing. A spotted hyena loped past the camping ground's electrified fence looking for bones and food scraps, but Mike discouraged any of the group from feeding the animal.

He had already finished off a six-pack of Lion lagers and was sipping cheap South African brandy from a plastic coffee cup when Mel pulled out a joint. Mike passed on the marijuana as he was experiencing enough of a buzz from the alcohol, but noticed Jane, who was sitting next to him, never missed the opportunity for a toke when it came her way. A couple of times, when Jane leaned over to pass the joint to Terry, she let her leg rub against Mike's or laid a hand on his knee to steady herself.

Julie had elbowed Sarah out of the front cab for a couple of hours that morning and, true to her request on the first night, had interviewed Mike about his job for the travel feature she had to write for her studies. Like her mother, she was friendly and outgoing. She asked straightforward questions about his experiences driving an overland truck, the countries he'd seen and the ups and downs of the job. Another trait she had apparently inherited from her mother was a tendency to touch people to emphasise things when she spoke. He had thought Jane had been flirting with him, but now wondered whether both mother and daughter were simply very extroverted people.

‘Tell us about your first time. Your first sexual experience,' said Jane.

Mike coughed as his brandy went down the wrong way. There were laughs all around the fire.
The conversation was getting more and more outrageous as the night wore on and Jane had just upped the ante.

‘Boy or girl?' asked Linda with mock seriousness. Everybody laughed.

The stories tumbled out of embarrassed, drunk and stoned mouths. Back seat of a car, village green, high school dance, sand dune.

‘Where's Sarah?' asked Linda, draining another glass of South African white wine.

‘The virgin?' said Mel.

‘Bitchy,' replied Julie.

‘What about our Nigel?' asked George aloud.

‘Baa-ah,' said Terry, doing a credible sheep impersonation.

‘What about you, Jane? You started this,' said Terry, lighting yet another joint.

Jane swirled her wine in her plastic cup and looked up at the stars, then across to Julie. ‘Julie's dad,' she said softly, and there was silence around the fire. ‘I was sixteen, he was seventeen. He was lead guitarist in a covers band and I used to sneak into the nightclubs around Bristol to watch him play.'

‘Tell the rest, Mum,' Julie said earnestly, laying a hand on her mother's knee.

‘Well . . . When I found out I was pregnant I thought he'd run, but he surprised me. Said he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. I was going to be in terrible trouble with my folks – and I was, in the end – so we decided to elope. I packed my bag and waited for him to come fetch me in the middle of the night. We lived in a small village then,
way out in the countryside. It was winter. The roads were icy. He rode a motorbike.'

Mike could see Jane's hands gripping the cup tightly and she looked up into the star-filled sky again.

‘He'd been gigging that night and when he didn't show up I thought he'd changed his mind and done a runner.'

‘But he hadn't,' said Julie.

‘No. He hit a patch of black ice and ran into a parked lorry. Not a mile from our house. Julie never met her dad.'

There was silence around the fire now. Some of them looked up at the stars, others gazed into the flames.

‘It's OK, you know,' Julie said to no one in particular. ‘From Mum I've only got good memories of my father.'

‘How about a refill, Mike, before everyone gets too maudlin,' Jane said. ‘And you can tell us about your first love,' she added, trying to sound brighter.

‘It was so long ago I can't remember,' he lied. He looked at Jane and she just smiled back at him.

The numbers around the fire slowly dwindled.

‘So, was there ever a true love in your life?' Jane asked again, quietly. The other stayers, Linda, Terry and George, were engaged in their own conversation, about football, on the other side of the fire.

‘One. But I don't want to talk about it, if that's all right,' he said.

‘Strong silent type, eh? Typical Aussie,' Jane said, tipping the last of the half-bottle of brandy into their
mugs. She put a hand on his thigh to steady herself as she poured, and, despite his inebriation, he was acutely aware of the warmth of her hand, the smell of her perfume.

He just nodded, and they both laughed. He knew he had drunk too much, but he opened them both another can of beer once they finished their brandy.

The paraffin lantern hanging off the back of the truck started to gutter at one in the morning and Mike didn't bother refilling it. He realised he might set fire to himself if he tried, given the state he was in.

‘I think we'd better call it a night,' he said to Jane. The others had just left them.

‘It's a night,' she said, giggling.

Even drunk, Mike was a light sleeper. The rocking of the truck, slight as it was, woke him immediately. He was lying on the floor, in the aisle between the seats near the back. He fumbled under the rolled-up fleece he used as a pillow for his mini torch.

He could see a slight form standing in the aisle, silhouetted against the starlight outside. The figure crept closer, but he didn't switch on the torch. He doubted it was a thief, as the South African national parks are all but crime-free. He could see the swell of her hips now, her shapely legs. His heart rate went into overdrive.

‘Hi, it's only me,' Jane whispered. ‘Did I wake you? Sorry. I felt like some company.'

She padded the length of the cab in white socks now coated with the camping ground's gritty sand.
Her feet made tiny scratching sounds on the tin floor of the cab. She was wearing a long, baggy T-shirt and shorts.

‘Mind if I sit down?'

He ran a hand through his long hair, which was hanging loose, brushing it off his eyes. ‘Sure – I mean, no, I don't mind at all,' he said, moving as far across the narrow aisle as he could to make room for her.

‘It was all that talk about first loves and all,' she whispered as she slid her back down the rear wall of the cab and landed with a soft thud on her backside on his sleeping mat. She pulled her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs. ‘I know I started it, but it gets me down, when I think about the past and what might have been. Do you ever feel that way?'

‘Yes.'

‘You don't give much away, do you?' she asked, turning to stare hard into his eyes. Her lips stayed slightly parted and he could smell the alcohol on her breath and sweet marijuana smoke in her hair.

‘No.'

‘Tell me if you want me to leave now.'

‘I'm not sure, Jane. We've both had a bit to drink.'

She moved a finger to his lips. ‘Shush. I know, but I'm not feeling drunk now, are you?'

He knew what she had gone through, losing her boyfriend, and his heart hurt for her. He thought of Isabella and of the rule about sleeping with passengers. He was about to protest, but his body betrayed him.

Jane leaned closer, moved her finger from his lips
and traced a line from his mouth, slowly down over his chest and belly. Lower. She smiled and placed her lips on his, her hand tracing him now, through his shorts.