Heart of Africa (9 page)

Chapter 10

At now nearly 4:00 p.m., I realized that if I didn’t find the main
road and Peter soon I’d lack shelter and warmth for the night. I had only ninety minutes until the gates closed at five thirty and probably thirty minutes of light left after that. While I might be lucky enough to run into some tourists doing a night drive, chances were slim. Instinct insisted that the Limpopo River had to be close, but in what direction? A lovely slim lizard with a long, electric-blue tail and striped body wiggled out into the ground before me. Clearly harmless, he now seemed my only friend, and so I directed the question at him.

“So which way do you think I should go, little guy?” I asked as the lizard basked in the bright sun. The reptile twitched its vivid blue tail and, considering that as much of a sign as anything else, I re-shouldered my backpack and began trudging in the direction his tail pointed.

A light cloud cover darkened the sky. While threatening no rain, it did succeed in confusing me as to the sun’s true direction. I walked slowly, hoping I was headed east. The late afternoon grew chilly and my stomach ached from tension. Worse yet, I seemed to be having an allergic reaction because my skin itched and crawled underneath my damp clothing. An unseen root caught at my trainer and I plunged facedown into the dirt, eating sand. Spitting and coughing, I dragged myself into a shallow indentation in the soil not far from some acacia trees.

Like a hopeless child I burst into tears, the salt stinging my torn cheek. Despair visited me that hour just before dusk as I lay trembling, curled into a tight ball in a fruitless effort to try to retain my waning body heat. Black ants scurried near my face and the evening sounds escalated, adding to my ripening fear.

It was then I spotted her. Her eyes glowed yellow in the dimming light as her elfish ears tilted toward me. She remained frozen in mid-stride as she analyzed how viable a meal I’d make. How had it come to this?

The cat’s yellow eyes bored into my hazel ones. Never a champion at staring contests, something broke inside me. Whether it was fear, despair about Peter and my situation, stupidity, or some belated sense of courage that propelled me, I’ll never know.

I suddenly lurched to my feet, screaming and roaring, clapping my hands together like some frenzied exercise nut performing clownish jumping jacks. The feline’s eyes flamed and she leaped—not at me but away, springing gracefully over low bushes and grass. Madness overtook my senses and I chased her, screaming like a wild banshee. I remained as sure-footed and almost as swift as she. The caracal suddenly leaped, springing in a graceful arch that landed her upon the sandy shores of the river.

I stopped like some sort of demented lemming halted at the edge of the cliff it had nearly plunged over. Standing gratefully upon the rocky embankment, I stared once again at the wide Limpopo. The frightened cat had led me to its sluggishly moving waters. I sank down upon my bottom and gazed at its banks, cherishing its wide, languid shores like a lost lover regained. The distant grunting of submerged hippos echoing through the riverbank stirred up a belated sense of reason in my fatigued brain. With little chance of finding the main road before dark, I had to face the fact that I was stuck in the bush for the night. I tried to remember all the tidbits of information Peter had shared about his walking safaris. I recalled how he and his clients had slept atop their jeeps in a portable tent—hoisted away from lions, snakes, and other harmful creatures.

Scanning the curving banks of the river, I searched for an elevated place to shelter. Perhaps one of those huge fig trees I’d climbed after escaping the hijackers would do. In its protective branches I could craft a nest for the night. After a cautious quarter of a mile, I stumbled upon the perfect tree. Nestled within a clump of three similar trees with huge, buttressed trunks and powdery yellowish-orange bark, my chosen refuge hung over the sandy embankment, presenting an uninterrupted view of the meandering river. Behind it, a semi-clearing seemed ideal for building a fire. After climbing the huge trunk, I discovered a broken branch perfect for hanging my backpack safely away from baboons and other creatures.

I shimmied down and, now shivering, began foraging for dry wood in the dim light. Luckily, driftwood plentifully dotted the sandy expanse of the Limpopo River. I pulled several large pieces out of the sand and dragged them toward my little clearing. Perfect. Unfortunately, without kindling I’d have no way to ignite the large pieces. Twenty yards away, a broken log, bent branches extending like a pincushion from its decaying trunk, rose from the sandy soil. I hastily twisted small twigs off its reluctant surface until a sharp sting upon my knuckle halted me. A bright red ant, the length of my fingernail, crawled across the back of my hand. Fire ants scurried everywhere and with a sharp cry I dropped the branch and frantically beat off the swarm. I stood right in their nest! Hopping back, I still felt the hot sting of a renegade soldier’s attack beneath my trouser leg. Beating frantically at my already bruised leg, I stumbled away.

A few yards away, some dry-looking twigs peeked from under a crumbling rock. Straining with the effort, I pulled mightily, finally toppling the small boulder. A black scorpion, tail curved menacingly over its shiny body, scuttled toward my foot. Shrieking loudly, I leaped over the boulder and the arachnid darted into the deep shadow of a river rock. After that, incredibly tentative and literally jumping at every shadow, it took me a full fifteen minutes just to gather enough twigs to start a fire.

Like a conscientious Girl Scout, I carefully positioned saucer-sized stones in an attempt to encircle the fire pit as a preventive measure, hoping to contain any sparks that might start the dry grass ablaze. Thank goodness I had my box of matches. I decided to wait until it was almost completely dark to light my fire. I now had enough wood to last several hours; hopefully, that would keep away any predators.

Hunger gnawed at my innards as I considered my limited meal choices. I could finish off the peanuts, eat another energy bar, have one of the apples, or tuck into the biltong. Any of those options would leave little for breakfast or lunch. After consuming a long drink of water I decided to search for something edible from the veldt to make my meager supplies last longer. Late-blooming flowers lined the riverbank, resembling tall, red-blossomed matchsticks. At nearly a meter high, small clusters of peanut-sized red berries clung to their bottom stems. I’d been lectured all through my growing years by my farm-bred grandmother about how one must be extremely cautious regarding what they consume from nature. Her own cousin had died a horrible death from ingesting poisonous toadstools.

But how was I to determine if the berries were poisonous or not? I finally decided that dinner this night would simply have to consist of an energy bar, a few peanuts, one apple, and some bottled water. I momentarily wondered if there were any fish in the shallow Limpopo, but after recalling my experience with the crocodile, decided that finding out might not be such a wise idea.

A snort and a crackle issued from the brush and I immediately scrambled up the fig tree, perched upon the overhanging branch with my feet drawn up, ready to crawl higher if the need arose. A very large grayish-brown baboon came out of the bush and sniffed about, his weight resting on his knuckles. He scanned the riverbank before emitting a low howl, apparently beckoning his troop. Realizing that trees are a second home to baboons, I crouched silently, alert to the intruder’s every move. Peter had warned me about the aggressive Chacma baboons with their large canines and troops numbering up to a hundred. I had hoped since Letaba to see one close-up on my journey. One should be careful what one wishes for.

The first baboon to emerge from the bush was a huge male, his dusty fur bristling. He sat on his haunches and manipulated his large testicles. The sight was unnerving. A smaller male baboon smacked the back of his head like a teacher does an offending student, and the leader and several others of his troop chased after him, dashing across the sandy bank. The others of the group, apparently thirsty, leaned down with their lips close to the water and drank noisily. A few stragglers, mostly young mothers with children balanced upon their backs and leaning against their upright tails, began foraging the same tall flowers I’d analyzed earlier. I watched in keen interest as they peeled off the berries and popped them into their mouths, chewing just like humans. I smiled to myself; here was a surefire method to determine if the berries were edible or not. Hopefully the baboons would leave me enough to snack upon later.

Luckily the baboons did not linger long. The females soon quit their foraging and sauntered down to the river for drinks before heading north. The troop followed the bank, keeping away from the water to instinctively avoid lurking crocodiles. However, they took their own sweet time about it and a full fifteen minutes passed before the last baboon disappeared from sight.

By now, nearly paralyzed from perching on the scaly branch, I slid down the first few feet and then jumped, leaping upon the soft sand beneath the tree. Numb from lack of circulation, I landed first upon my stinging feet before falling straight upon my bottom, my rubbery legs failing to support me. I spent the next few minutes rubbing them briskly and noting how cool it suddenly had become. The sun obstinately faded behind the opposite stand of trees and I realized I needed to immediately start my fire after foraging for the last bit of berries while there was still enough light to see.

The baboons hadn’t left much. After picking through all the flowery bushes I found only two scant handfuls. My next dilemma was whether to eat them immediately or go wash them in the river. I decided that if they hadn’t killed the baboons then they probably wouldn’t harm me, so I popped one of the berries into my mouth. Though tart and mushy, I managed to swallow it down. By sheer effort of will I finished eating all the berries, thankful that at least they stopped my stomach rumbling. I decided to eat only half an energy bar and one of the tart apples, saving the rest of my hoard for tomorrow.

After retrieving matches from the backpack, I arranged the dry kindling and lit the first match. I don’t know why I thought it was going to be easy to light the dry twigs. Shouldn’t one of the small matches strike the tinder, instantly bursting it into flame? How wrong I was. After four worthless strikes I realized that if I wasn’t careful I’d not only lack a fire, but would soon be out of matches. Certainly Indiana Jones and Lara Croft had never dealt with this type of problem!

I’d been a Girl Scout, but to observe me fumbling about, one would have been convinced I’d flunked out of the organization. The kindling smoked, but refused to ignite. The dirty branches, some of which had thorns that tore at my hands, kept falling out of my precise cone-shaped stack. While my mishaps would have been a hit on
America’s Funniest Home Videos,
it was no laughing matter to me. I once again imagined my competent Peter quickly lighting a fire and smiling indulgently at my clumsiness. The temperature continued to drop and I paused to pull my dark-gray sweatshirt over my long-sleeved tee and rub my cold hands upon my filthy jeans. The days might be pleasant and warm during August in South Africa, but the evenings turned uncomfortably cold.

I refused to give up. I not only needed a fire for warmth, but protection as well. How many countless wildlife shows and thrilling books had convinced me that animals were instinctively afraid of fire? I also housed the vague hope that my feeble flames would serve as a beacon either to Peter, if he was still alive, or to game wardens eager to investigate an illegal campfire, who would thus discover me. Peter, still alive—the image of his warm steady eyes and loving smile strengthened me. So I knelt and huffed and puffed, just like the wolf in the story of the three little pigs, until finally my fifth match took. I can state with unfaltering certainty that fire is a miracle. I’m now convinced that it is the ability to make fire, as well as flush toilets, which really separates man from beast. More devout than I’d ever been before, I sent up a swift, thankful prayer to my Maker while gradually adding small twigs and larger branches until I achieved a roaring blaze. I then moved a fairly flat stump near the fire and basked in its warmth.

Later, as I munched on some salty peanuts and dry biltong, (the tart berries in no way could sustain me) I gazed fretfully into the dancing fire, remembering a program on
Animal Planet
about how mountain gorillas and orangutans make nests to sleep in every night. The idea of a soft nest sounded cozy, but was it feasible? Perhaps I should sleep in the tree, which would be much safer, instead of a comfy bed near the fire. Indecisively I gazed at the fire, reluctant to move away from its cheerful flames.

Exhausted, hungry and dispirited, I pondered how all this could have happened to me. My life had always been tightly controlled and well-organized. I felt as shell-shocked and befuddled as when I’d discovered Josh’s unfaithfulness.

I forced myself to redirect my thoughts as panic shot through me. I had to focus on the current problems at hand. The descending chill made me hesitant to exchange the warmth of the fire and my cozy stump for the tree. I argued with myself that if I stretched out by the well-tended fire, fell asleep and let it go out, there was a strong possibility I would wake up face-to-face with a leopard. I weighed my options for several minutes and finally decided the fire was the best choice. Better to be warm and flat than fall from a cold tree and break my back. Resolutely, I collected a pile of leaves and grass for my itchy bed, careful to avoid ones with thorns or the ever-present ants.