Heart of Africa (17 page)

Peter discovered another animal trail, which made traversing the rough terrain a great deal easier. We trudged in near silence for two more hours that hot midday, my thirst reaching monumental proportions and my discomfort knowing no bounds. Upon the beaten-down trail, I observed many small piles of pellet-like droppings which were bigger than the impala’s he had pointed out before, but less shiny. By now, I was rendered too tired and uncomfortable to ask Peter anything about what might have produced them.

We finally reached a dry riverbed and Peter hesitated for a moment before heading toward the edge of the sandy wash, where the dirt seemed several shades darker. I could see now the huge footprints in the wash, obviously made by elephants. He leaned down and, poking his walking stick into a footprint, dug furiously. After a few moments he squatted and touched the soil. “There’s water here,” he announced.

I didn’t say anything, but moved closer, licking my parched lips. “Where? I don’t see any.”

“The elephant knows that in dry season water is far away, so she digs with her heavy feet and trunk into the edge of what looks to be a dry riverbed like this. If she’s lucky, the water will seep to the surface.”

Peter began scooping out the soft sand like an intent badger. I bent over, intrigued in spite of myself. Lo and behold, after burrowing out a pit of six or so inches, water seeped to the surface. Brown and filthy, it was, nevertheless, wet. I was so thirsty I wanted to throw myself on the ground and lower my lips to the muddy fluid.

“Easy, lass,” Peter laughed. He continued digging into many more adjacent footprints and as the water continued to rise, he scouted about, searching for dry needle grass to place atop the murky water.

“Wait a few minutes. The water will clear above the straw and you can drink.”

We waited five before Peter bade me to lie down and scoop up enough of the liquid to slake my thirst. A true gentleman, he allowed me the first taste before leaning down and drinking himself.

“It’s not good enough quality,” he announced after slurping noisily for a few moments, “to clean your tick bites. We’ll have to find running water to do that.”

“How far away from a river are we?” I asked.

“Too far. If we headed north, we could run into the Luvuvhu, but there are no rivers in this area. There’s one a great deal further south called the Nkulumbeni, but it would be unwise to venture in that direction. The road is too far off, and the region is famous for its lions. No, we have to travel this way to find the Limpopo. It’s the safest and easiest. There’s some more moisture in that footprint. Take one last drink. Who knows when we will find water again.”

Water bottles empty and thirst barely slaked,
we embarked on our hot march again, pausing only once within the next two hours to rest under the shade of two twin thorn trees, which Peter announced were really false thorns. My throat and mouth, again parched from lack of water, could barely produce enough saliva to wet my lips. Peter caressed my hand before gently pulling me to my feet to return to our killer pace.

I’d read that midday and afternoon are the hours you see animals least on game drives. We were fortunate it held true for us. Only startled pink doves, a few circling birds of prey, and distant snorting that Peter said were rooting warthogs, disturbed the dry, hot afternoon.

The sun had perched directly overhead when Peter suddenly gave a cry of triumph and lunged forward. I have no idea from whence the small stream of flowing water originated, only knowing it was welcome beyond belief. A few moss-covered boulders sidled up against the low embankments and from them, in the shape of a widening fan of perhaps thirty yards, grass obstinately grew green in the dry heat. A few pale-brown birds scattered at our approach as Peter quickly knelt near the base of the rock.

“Do you see,” he pointed, “how it seeps from the stone? There must be some sort of underground stream.”

He knelt and drank, and then moved aside for me. I lay prone in the cushy green grass and gulped noisily. And, because the water was so plentiful, I even dared wash my face. Peter then gathered his dirty second-hand sports bottle and my own two-liter bottle, and filled them to the brim.

“We’ll rest here awhile,” he said, “and drink more. I’d like to scout around, but since water is very scarce in this region, many dangerous animals may come here to drink. I think it would be a good idea if you accompanied me.”

It sounded like an excellent plan. I took one more drink and then noticed the comical expression on his face.

“What?” I asked expectantly.

“It’s just, Mandy, that the water has made interesting designs upon your face…”

The small pool of clear water allowed me to catch my reflection. The dirt made a boundary of filth on my streaked face. Dust outlined my eyes and I resembled some kind of scary African Halloween mask. I giggled and dunked my face completely in the water. The refreshing shock was welcome as I scrubbed my face briskly with my hands.

I leaned my still-dripping face upward and asked, “Is that better?”

“Much, lass. You’re passably kissable,” and he followed the words with the deed. “Let’s rest a bit and wash off your tick bites.” I obeyed and used my rinsed-out water bottle to splash and cleanse the sores.

While I was busy, Peter scanned the depths of the bush. A strange, high, jolting laugh came from not far off.

“
Bere
!” exclaimed Peter as he gripped his spear.

“Bere?” I repeated.

“The hyena. They laugh before they kill.”

From Peter’s expression, I gathered that a hyena was something I wouldn’t want to run into personally on foot. I remembered their nerdish appearance when I’d viewed them the first time from the safety of my car.

“I saw a couple the other day. They’re dangerous?” I asked nonchalantly.

“Very. The brown less so, because he is more solitary, but the spotted run in packs.”

He humped his shoulders to mimic them. “They’re so fierce they will fight the lion for its kill. Did you know that the brown hyena drinks no water? The blood and fluid from the carcasses gives him enough. The female has a false penis and is a ruthless and skilled hunter.”

I gulped. “A false penis? Jeez. Are the brown found in this area?”

“Not as much as the spotted.”

The sound repeated itself and intensified to a mixture of high-pitched screams, strange gurgling squeals, and definite dog-like whines. Finally a distant answer floated back, followed by another message before all fell silent.

“It must be a brown. The spotted can live in clans of up to eighty in number, but that sounded like only two speaking. The spotted’s shouts are different, more like
whooo-oop
and rising in strength at the end. Sometimes they even seem to giggle. That is why they’re referred to as the laughing hyena. They’re more a predator than the brown, and thus much more dangerous. I believe I should scout around.”

I nodded, though I didn’t want him to go. Peter rose abruptly and balancing his walking stick-spear on his shoulder, disappeared into the bush. Within ten minutes he returned, dragging something large and white behind him.

“I saw no hyena,” Peter announced, “but look what I found.” The joy of a little boy parading his newly-found treasure sparkled in his face as he adjusted an immense skull with huge, hollow eyeholes before me.

“Is that an elephant?” I asked incredulously.

“It is indeed. I believe this one died in its forties of disease.”

“Now how could you possibly know that?” I asked.

He laughed. “Remember how I told you about the teeth?”

Peter worked and wiggled at the jawbone of the massive skull, finally managing to dislodge a couple resistant bicuspids.

“Do you see here? This is his fourth row of teeth. As I told you, elephants are born with six rows only, and each row lasts him about ten years. The elephant must eat up to fourteen hours a day and consume perhaps a hundred and seventy kilos of grass and leaves to maintain his massive weight.”

I did a quick mental calculation. “Let’s see, if a kilo is a little over two pounds, that means roughly three hundred and forty pounds or more a day. Amazing,” I exclaimed.

“It is indeed, lass. As herbivores, they must feed continually. Fortunately, they’re not picky eaters. They’ll eat anything and everything that is chewable, including sticks. They grind and wear down a row of teeth every ten years or so, mostly from the rough bark they chew.”

“But you say this elephant was in his forties?”

“Yes. Let me prove how I know.” He dug around with his knife and in the light of the flickering flames, pointed to twin embedded rear sets of teeth.

“Two rows left. He must have been injured or sick. The sick here die quickly, as the lion and hyena take out the feeble first.”

In his hand rested a small block of elephant teeth.

“May I have that?” I asked suddenly.

Peter seemed surprised. “You want the elephant teeth? But, of course.”

“I’ll keep it as a souvenir of how I was lost in the bush with you.”

Peter smiled and settled on the ground, using the skull as a backrest. “Tell me more about your family, Mandy.” One would have thought it was a pleasant Sunday afternoon over tea on the terrace. “You have other family than your mother?”

“Yes. I’m an only child, but Ken, my cousin, was raised by my folks. My father died a couple years ago, but my mother and cousin still live in Florida. We reside in Orlando, though actually Mom’s on the perimeter of the city. She’s still quite mobile and can get around. She took me to the airport.”

“Your cousin, is he older or younger?”

“Older. He is trained as a scientist and owns a computer company. He’s quite successful.”

“You don’t care for him.” It was a statement.

“How’d you work that one out?”

“There is no warmth in your voice when you speak of him.”

I hesitated. A daytime sliver of moon showed itself just above the thorn trees.

“My cousin is difficult, but only a little more so than my mother,” I said lamely. “Ken is very conservative and has an opinion about everything. He doesn’t really like women or people of color that much. He believes he’s… naturally superior. It doesn’t matter that I have a college education and support myself; I will never be his equal, not in his eyes or my mother’s. He’s clearly the favorite, even though he’s not Mom’s son.”

“I understand. The living blood of a family can make one’s shoulders stoop.”

The simple statement for some reason warmed me. “How true. I suspect my cousin feels superior to everyone because of his education, intelligence, and upbringing. He
is
brilliant after all.”

“And his brilliance blinds him to life? He’s not married?”

“No, and I think he never shall.”

“And you don’t like him and feel guilty because of it?”

“Yes, and because he always finds fault with me, thus making it difficult for me to love him.”

“In the village near where I was raised in Zimbabwe, there was a wise old man who told many stories similar to the one about the mosquito.”

I smiled at the memory of the delightful tale.

“He died not fifteen years ago,” Peter continued, “in a most horrible way.” He paused and sighed. “The old man originally came from Lesotho. He was short and crooked and age had twisted his fingers so he could barely hold a cup. Most of the Shona from my region were tall. The men from Lesotho are small, perhaps because of the harsh conditions of their mountainous country.”

I had to interrupt. “I’m afraid I don’t know where Lesotho is.”

Peter didn’t seem surprised. “It is a small, high country totally surrounded by South Africa. It is said that Old Man Lightning strikes there more than any other place in the world. Anyway, some people disliked the fact that Sipho had come to that village, married one of the chief’s daughters, and was revered as a wise man. He was not one of the “locals,” you see, though he had lived in that village since before I was born. Most accepted him, but not a man named Loben. Loben was like your cousin. Anyone not like him was unwelcome. He hated whites, the Ndebele, and any Shona who disagreed with him. He beat his wife and said it was because Tira was stupid and slow. And then, even as she was pregnant with his fifth child, he cast her out and married a girl of sixteen from the neighboring village, saying Tira dishonored him by only bearing daughters.

The tribal elder sent Loben to speak with Sipho in hopes that the old man would give his son some advice that might straighten him out. Loben did as instructed and spent over an hour at the old man’s hut. Afterwards, he disappeared for three days. Sipho did not appear the next morning and finally his granddaughter, very concerned, went to check on him. There she found him with his head smashed in, the brains oozing out and the ants… the ants had been at his body and had started to clean the flesh from his bones. It was a scene most horrifying, my father said.”