Heart of Africa (10 page)

I gathered a few more sticks of wood using my penlight as a guide, praying I’d collected enough to maintain the fire all night. I opened up another one of my energy bars and ate it slowly, savoring every bite before devouring another tart green apple and more peanuts. The cold made me ravenous and now only a scant fistful of nuts, a tidbit of biltong, one energy bar, and the last apple remained for breakfast. I had only shoved one two-liter water bottle into my backpack, and scarcely a quarter of it remained. The river gurgled in the distance, and I decided it was time for me to venture down to the river and refill the bottle. Hopefully the water wasn’t polluted or filled with those horrible parasites I’d heard infested the waterways of Africa. I gulped down the remaining water and searched for a weapon.

While I had been clearing the brush from near my fire, I’d discovered a fairly long staff. Using my Swiss army knife I removed the remaining thorns and protrusions, leaving myself a heavy-duty, formidable weapon. Best yet, tomorrow it could also serve as a walking stick. Using the penlight as a guide I retraced the path the baboons had taken. I’d watched them stoop to drink in a little side pool off the main waterway, and I headed for that. Upon inspection, the water appeared fairly clean in the narrow beam of my small flashlight. The hum of night insects filled the air as I dunked my water bottle into the stream, filling it to the brim before kneeling down for a long drink.

A slight rustle sounded to my left and never pausing to ascertain its identity, I grabbed up my water bottle and staff and bolted for the safety of the fire. From where I’d knelt to drink, I’d noticed that my fire sent up a swirl of smoke and sparks from its bed of bright, flaming wood and coals. I hoped the blaze would serve as a proper SOS for Peter or anyone else searching for me. I had no more reached my fire and sank down on my makeshift seat when the night dropped like a heavy black curtain. I shivered, more from fear than cold, and fed the fire two more unnecessary logs.

The wind picked up, chilling me further. It seemed no matter where I moved, the smoke followed and I spent most of my time dragging my stump to new positions to escape the choking fumes. Some of the wood was clearly wet, little bubbles of sap oozing from the ends of the smoking sticks. One log I placed upon the dismal fire stank, its reek so pungent that I grabbed up my fire poker and hurtled the offending log to the ground, burying it in the sand.

Gradually, the wind died down and the fire eased its smoking torment. I moved closer, thinking what a wonderful night this would be if I wasn’t so frightened. Jerking and convulsing at every little noise, I barely noticed the brilliant Milky Way, so vivid it appeared close enough to touch. Crickets hummed about me and in the distance, I heard the hoot of hunting owls. Occasionally, the night bird’s short, concise hoots were joined by the noisy baboons’ deeper bellows. I sat feeding my fire, flinching at every new sound and debating whether or not to stretch out upon my nest.

The inevitable finally arrived; bedtime had come. Grabbing one of my valuable tissues, I obeyed the call of nature. I washed my hands in the sand like the ancient Arabs and settled down upon my rough bed. It took a long time to fall asleep; my memories of how just last night Peter had held me, breathing sleepily into my hair, awakened my tears again. I ached as much inside as out. The fear, discomfort and homesickness for Peter made me an insomniac even though I lay exhausted. Finally the distant murmur of the river and comforting rustle of the breeze did their magic. With my staff clutched to my chest, the army knife by my cheek, and the trusty penlight within reach, I drifted into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter 11

             
I awoke with a start. Only coals remained from my fire, so
I could make out only the faint outline of something nosing around my foot. Willing myself not to scream, I furiously kicked at the moving object, my staff held ready to defend myself from whatever the assailant might be. Leaping to my feet, I noted a scaly round ball just outside my fire pit and soundly clubbed the bowling-ball-sized shape like one would a golf ball. It rolled to the outer edge of the brush I had cleared earlier that evening. Quickly stacking a few dry logs onto the fire, I blew on the coals and the dry wood immediately burst into bright flame to brilliantly illuminate the area.

To my amazement, the ball slowly unfurled, transforming into a bizarre creature. An upper body covered with horny scales was no less unique than its long, narrow snout which resembled that of an anteater or armadillo. I later ascertained that this reptilian-looking creature was none other than the nocturnal pangolin. Hindsight proved that it was a harmless animal that fed only on termites and ants, but at the time I could only note its sharply curved black claws. After unrolling from its tight ball, the pangolin turned a head quizzically toward me before stumbling off into the underbrush. I laughed shakily, realizing it had simply been on a search for termite mounds.

Glancing at my wristwatch, I noted it was now quarter after midnight; I had slept for almost four hours. I fed more logs onto the fire and sat for a long time listening to the night sounds of the untamed bush. It was then that I heard it; a low, guttural bellow in the distance, sounding in monotonous repetition. Even I, a rank amateur lost in the bush, recognized the call of the lion. Echoing more than a mile away, its repetitive low roars indicated to me it sought others of its kind. That realization drove my blood pressure up as I visualized a hungry pride encircling my small campsite, licking their collective chops as they spotted a suitable midnight snack.

I slept little the rest of that night and when I finally awoke a few minutes after dawn, my stiff muscles were thoroughly chilled. The fire had burned out; even its coals no longer were glowing, but I’d survived the night. I allotted myself the rest of the biltong for breakfast, determined I would snack on the last of the peanuts, remaining apple and energy bar later. I wolfed down the strong, gamey jerky; the dried meat had become flushed a murky crimson. While appearing undercooked and unappetizing, to me it was the tastiest breakfast in the world. I then wandered over to see if there were any more berries I might have missed from where the baboons had foraged the previous night, but no such luck. After a swig of tepid water, I kicked sand over the dead coals and repacked my bag.

Last night, as I’d lain awake trembling at the distant roar of the lion, I’d made a tentative plan. I would follow the river until I hit the road or Crooks’ Corner: whichever came first. Then I’d build a signal fire and await rescue. While not the most elaborate of schemes, it sufficed to motivate me. Grabbing my walking stick, I slid down the embankment into the sandy wash to follow the river’s edge. Here, out of biting distance from the crocodiles, I hoped to follow its meandering path to the road in relative safety. The river basin, generally between 75 and 100 feet wide, would afford me ample warning if any predators advanced. To expedite spotting the road, my plan was to hike five minutes, pop up to the top the embankment to scan for the track, and then return to the safety of the riverbed to continue on another five minutes.

The morning proved quite chilly when I started out, a mere fifty degrees Fahrenheit, but quickly warmed up as I lengthened my stride. Within minutes I observed a beautiful bird resembling America’s bald eagle soaring sedately overhead, its white head tilted above dark wings as it scanned the river basin for prey. A scampering in the underbrush revealed a scrub hare with huge rounded ears that quickly, after catching one glimpse of me, dived back into the underbrush. Fifteen minutes later, a huge, slouching, dog-like creature materialized on the other side of the river. Joined by another, the pair turned curious heads toward me, studying me with small, round eyes.

The spotted hyenas, luckily for me, must have had a successful hunt the night before because they paid me little mind as they casually trotted up the sandy embankment into Mozambique. Thank God they were uninterested in me! It was amazing how I’d enjoyed the bountiful wildlife from inside the jeep much more than now. Almost immediately I spotted a beautiful gray and profusely hairy antelope with two oxpeckers clinging to his side. He drifted down to the water and daintily placed a slender black nose into the sluggish stream. Horns only slightly curved, his sturdy body was slashed with perpendicular white stripes, and he had a prominent white bar across his nose.

The bulky male nyala rested upon slender white legs and I recalled how the Australian tourists had mentioned how abundant the breed was in this area. How I longed for Peter’s calm voice educating me about the nyala’s habits, and tears rushed to my eyes again. If I could only touch him once again.  I rested and watched the hairy buck for a long while until his timid mate joined him. Though plainer and lacking horns, she still proved exquisite. The male watched me intently as his mate tentatively stepped into the water to take a cool drink; he the ever-vigilant protector. Scanning the rocky debris lining the Limpopo River, I also decided it was time for a drink.

With the beautiful antelope standing guard for me, I knelt and partook of a long, refreshing drink before refilling my bottle. The hairy antelope drifted off with its mate in tow and once again I continued my quest for the road. A low, rumbling sound, similar to the kind a distant helicopter makes, intensified. Mystified, I at first clung to the vain hope that it might be a truck, until the sounds of stomping and snorting proved otherwise. Glancing about fearfully, with no idea from which direction the sound originated, I remained paralyzed. The dual embankments of the Limpopo River seemed to disguise the sound’s direction as the rumble echoed across its wide corridor.

The ground began to shake beneath my sneakers. As its trembling increased, my survival instincts screamed for me to flee; but to where? Jutting from the nearest bank, a slight overhang of protruding brown rock beckoned. To its right a gentle slope eased down to the river, the grass beaten down to reveal a well-worn trail. Running to the rocky shelter I dove under the overhang to sit trembling as the earthquake-like rumbling increased. A horrible stench assailed my nostrils as the noise intensified to a roar.

A strong mixture of feces, flies, and animal mucus made me gag as the air turned rank. I dug trembling fingers into the crumbly soil as the first giant creature lumbered down into the wash just to the left of me. The massive male stopped and snorted, his curved horns shaped like some sort of monstrous headdress. Slimy mucus dripped from his nose and oxpeckers hopped impatiently upon his back. Weighing at least half a ton, he stood a good five feet high at the shoulder. His left ear hung ragged from previous violent encounters. The herd’s forward scout remained completely rigid while slowly scanning the riverbank. I froze, scarcely able to breathe; terrified he would pick up my cowardly scent. I’d heard about the Cape buffalo’s notoriously bad temper and prayed he couldn’t spy me cowering inside my dusty hideaway.

I remembered Peter’s tale of how Japanese tourists inside their car had been charged by a malevolent male who’d been guarding his offspring. He’d managed to gouge three good-sized holes into their passenger seat door, and they’d felt lucky to escape with only that minute damage. My throat convulsed as the dirty animal’s massive shoulders gave a nasty twitch. He sniffed and searched the brush for several minutes before finally delivering a loud snort and lumbering on. Suddenly the rest of the herd followed, crashing down the embankment and slinging sand and gravel every which way as they plunged into the wash.

They converged upon the Limpopo River, so many pushing their way down the steep riverbank that the ensuing cloud of dust obscured them from sight. Every so often, as I held my sweatshirt over my mouth, the dust would clear just enough to reveal how the herd kept their young clustered tightly in the middle, with a larger male or female flanking them to keep the calves safe from predators. During this process, the shallow river water was churned into brown froth as swarming flies hovered above the advancing herd’s mud-encrusted coats.

I’ve never seen a more awesome or frightening sight as those two hundred beasts crossing the Limpopo River. They progressed leisurely, only reluctantly surging up the other side of the embankment into Mozambique. The continuous noise deafened me, their attendant dust and flies appalling. The Cape buffaloes’ rank smell easily penetrated the soft weave of my sweatshirt. I’d desired to view all the Big Five, and now had witnessed one of its most dangerous in fearsome mass. Finally, the last straggler scrambled up the sandy sides of the Limpopo River, leaving me huddled and choking in its retreat. Fresh piles of shiny black dung, similar to cow patties, dotted the river basin, over which hordes of flies already hovered.

The brown river water, now rendered unfit for drinking, had been churned to froth. As the dust cleared I saw a young crocodile, no longer than three feet in length, lying half on its back, one foot protruding above the foamy water. Bloody and trampled, a grotesque victim of the crushing hooves of the migratory animals, it now lay nauseatingly still in the muddy water. As I eased myself from the overhang, two crocodiles on outstretched reptilian legs slowly approached the corpse of the unfortunate youngster. I backed away and leaning upon my staff, watched them cannibalize their dead kin.

Crocodiles do not eat politely or daintily; they rip and shred their victim, tearing off huge pieces while violently shaking their scaly heads as they unsympathetically gulp down the whole bloody mess. The white expanse of their massive necks and throats convulsing and swallowing the meat of their comrade further convinced me of what I already knew; I had to avoid the river at all costs. Using the wide trail left by the Cape buffalo, I sidestepped several unsavory piles of black dung to scramble up the South African side of the river.

Distancing myself from the river by at least twenty feet, I struggled to remain parallel with the leisurely Limpopo. The sun finally offered some heat and I removed my sweatshirt, tying it around my waist. As the morning warmed I began to sweat, attracting annoying gnats that swarmed around my face. My insect repellant was still in my luggage at Shingwedzi camp. I remembered how Peter had suggested we take a night drive and mentioned we would only need the repellant then. That night drive was supposed to have been last night! I forced myself to continue moving, my progress miserable, as I batted futilely at the persistent pests.

I trudged on for what seemed hours before finally halting and sinking down upon a rotten log to watch two yellow-billed hornbills energetically hop from branch to branch in an umbrella thorn tree. I’d devoured my last energy bar, but still felt strangely light-headed. Overly sun-sensitive, I’d lost my sunglasses in the frenzy of my escape from the hijackers, and a throbbing headache now joined the fatigue. There was still no sign of the road and I had little clue as to where I was situated in regard to Crooks’ Corner. The only certain thing was that the river remained to my right. Or did it? Damn my lack of directional sense! My scanty meal completed, I cautiously used the bushes before wearily continuing my laborious walk, concerned at the lessening pile of tissues remaining. I had to find civilization soon!

The next couple of hours were the stuff of nightmares. Hadn’t I passed this same ragged thorn tree before? Wasn’t that formation of rock almost identical to one I’d trudged by not ten minutes ago? A persistent pounding in my ears intensified with every step and every so often, an acrid scent assailed my nostrils. The sky had strangely darkened along with my mood and the bush seemed quieter, as if the creatures within held their breaths. The figs and acacias loomed particularly dense in this region and while lessening the midday heat, I fretted at my lack of vision.

I halted abruptly and sniffed. Could that be smoke I detected? My heart raced. It must be a campfire from a rest camp or picnic area nearby! I rushed through the brush, dazed and dizzy, but elated and hopeful. Just as suddenly as it had begun, the smoke brought to me by the benevolent wind ceased, the comforting smell no longer guiding my footsteps. The letdown was nearly as intense as the shock of being hijacked. The reality of being stranded in the bush took its toll and I again felt near weeping as my legs ached and my feet throbbed. In disgust, I stood cursing vehemently until the urge to cry vanished. I wouldn’t allow myself to disintegrate into that trembling mass of dejected wimpy womanhood that modern Hollywood films and books portrayed. Mandy Phillips was stronger than that! Right now I might be hot and tired and slightly disoriented, but within a matter of minutes I’d find the road and soon after, be rescued and reunited with my Peter. I simply needed to sit down and catch my breath before continuing my sojourn.

Like all animals in distress, I sought shelter from the sun and found it under a rock overhang. Though small, not more than five feet wide, it proved adequate enough for me and cast a large band of shade. I scraped away the trash and pebbles and sank into the cool sand, pulling my legs up next to my chest in a defensive posture. Like a tortoise, I needed refuge and this hollow would suffice for the time being. The indentation was so small it wouldn’t allow me to fully extend my legs, and I struggled to get comfortable. I hadn’t meant to sleep, but after three big swallows of tepid water and the victorious consumption of two stray peanuts found at the bottom of my bag, I drifted away.