Lost in Hotels (19 page)

“Her cub? Where is it?” I say in a whisper that carries, despite my low voice.

“He’s somewhere near, but what the lioness doesn’t know is that the male she is calling was killed by the Ferocious Five, a group of five male lions that traveled in from the neighboring reserve and have killed all the male lions in the area except this one last cub.”

“So what will she do?”

“She will eventually catch a whiff of their scent and realize she is in great danger, but we hope not before they hear her own call and come looking with a vengeance.”

“Will they kill her as well?”

“That is yet to be determined; she most certainly will fight to protect her young cub,” Duarte says with the most direct of eye contact, now fully engaged in this story of life and death.

“But the male lions want to mate with her and produce their own cubs,” says Nogo. “So they will most likely distract her before killing the cub swiftly.”

“It will be no match, as the cub is still very young, which is why she has fallen behind from her own pride,” Duarte says.

“But that is lucky for her, as her own pride has already lost all their own male cubs,” Nogo clarifies. “That is why the males are not hearing her call now; they are too busy with the new ladies.”

“Don’t the lionesses resist after their cubs are killed?”

“The lioness realizes that she must yield to the most powerful of the lions or die herself. She has no choice,” Nogo says.

“But she also enjoys the instinctual mating she knows will produce another cub with a more powerful mate that won’t let his offspring be killed by a more powerful male,” Duarte clarifies.

From the shadows of an African sage bush, a fluffy young cub playfully bounces into view, completely unaware of his universe of danger as the mother sits well aware of the unknown that lies before her. Her two paws fully extended in front of her upright torso lay parallel to one another as her eyes slowly drift into a soft sleep only to reopen swiftly to complete awareness, without any motion, and then closing again to the deepest of momentary rest.

Our vehicle and its three occupants sit motionless as well, imagining the enormous burden this mother faces and the almost certain tragedy that lies ahead of her. My thoughts turn to Nogo and Duarte, who follow these sagas like a sort of wildlife soap opera that lives in a surreal dimension only feet from their touch and yet always beyond their control.

Perhaps my own fate is as clear to those that hover around me. Brutal answers to all my troubles and concern lurking so obviously on the horizon as my each step betrays those I most love to build a relationship of lies with David. My own tragedy seems as unavoidable as that of the lioness, and yet we continue into the unknown and inch closer and closer to danger.

The moment grows stiller as the cub lies down next to its mother, and the encroaching night settles into a quiet lull. I wonder if David has settled into our room, and speculate what our conversation will be during dinner. A crescent moon hovers in the distance, unassuming but made incredible by the setting of treetop silhouettes and infinite African bush etched in darkness.

“Should we get going?” I ask.

Suddenly, without waiting for a response, the roar of the engine interrupts the stillness. Duarte reverses away from this mother and son scene and back along the fallen path from which we arrived. The path looks unfamiliar in the pitch-black night, the front trekker illuminating our way as well as scanning the landscape for other predators that come alive by night.

Duarte finds his way back to the gravel road and then increases speed as we wind our way through the bush and along a plateau overlooking a meandering watering hole. Suddenly, we come upon a massive tree surrounded in illuminated hurricane lanterns wincing with candlelight, and a small bar arranged in the bush with a collection of antique liquor bottles and cut-crystal glasses that magnify the light of the tapered candles glinting above.

“This is incredibly truly incredible,” I say as the engine stops once more, and Nogo rushes off the front of the truck to attend the awaiting bar.

“Your sundowner comes a little late, but also a little more magical on your first day,” Duarte says as Nogo pours him a whisky straight up and my usual gin and tonic that I didn’t even have to request verbally.

“If you look to the horizon, you’ll see three hippos in the water. Normally, we would sit along the lakefront, but as it is night, we want to stay a bit farther away should they go on the move.”

“They’re such loveable creatures,” I say with a sip from the thick glass that instantly soothes my chapped lips.

“They are the most dangerous animal in Africa,” Duarte counters. “They kill more people than lions and snakes combined.”

“While people are swimming or near the water?”

“No, it is during the night that they travel, and they will kill any person they come across with such a ferociousness you cannot imagine.”

“Do they crush them or eat them?” I ask.

“When we get back to the lodge I will show you a picture of their mouth; it is incredible. You’d rightly take on a shark versus the bite of a hippo, I assure you.”

Nogo unpacks a series of five round metal containers from his sack and puts them onto a silver tray with a wooden inlay that reveals a presentation of South African jerky known as biltong and fluffy meatballs with a name that doesn’t make it any more familiar.

“And now we will leave you be for a few moments to enjoy and be at one with the sounds of the bush,” Duarte remarks as he and Nogo take leave from the makeshift bar.

“You mean you’re just going to leave me here, alone, with the Furious Five on the prowl?”

“The Ferocious Five. And no, ma’am, we will just be over there, but it is important that you hear and feel how it is to be one with the wild. Humans are the most feared of predators; trust me, you will be fine, even if we did leave.” Nogo’s accent calms my nerves as the men make their way to the back of the truck and out of my sight.

The quietness of the makeshift camp reveals itself much louder than I imagined. The bush lets itself be heard by the faded cackles of a distant hyena between the interspersed splashing of my hippos becoming more and more playful or agitated. It’s hard to tell the mood of the wild, such a tenuous line between harmless and deadly that leaves those unfamiliar with the landscape always verging on the fearful.

The space feels entirely different on the ground outside of the insulated truck, away from the guides, and the safety that they provide. I can hear my breath and see it meet the air engulfed in a warm fog that vanishes into the night air. Each of my steps stirs the blotting of dried leaves on the ground, and the scent of Africa lingers in the air as if for me alone. The isolation is intoxicating and such a juxtaposition to the old me. I used to avoid being alone; I always filled my nights with dinners and dates with friends or anyone. I worried I would always be alone. The older I got, the more I started to think there was something wrong with me, something unlovable or unworthy.

I could almost imagine living here; getting lost in the wild and the animals in the bush that fill the lives of these people. Upon arriving, I thought it too isolated and too removed, but I actually feel closer and more engaged in life than I’ve felt in a long time. For the few moments on that ride, my mind actually drifted from thoughts of Matt and David to see what is directly in front of me. To be here and not become lost in Africa would be a feat that’s impossible even for me.

The longer the men are gone, the more wild the sounds became. Although I’m unsure whether it’s because the night is ripening and the wild is awaking, or because I am paying attention to all that is around me, and not that which lingers outside the scope of my immediate attention. The sounds are intense as the rustling in the nearby bushes gives me pause for a minute, unsure if I should get into the truck or run back to join the men.

Suddenly, the bush quiets and I can hear the voices of Duarte and Nogo returning to my side. “How did you do? No lions, I take it.”

“You’re so right. It’s an entirely different experience being alone.”

“It’s like your mind’s version of the eyes adjusting to brightness or dark light. After a minute, it’s an entirely different world,” Duarte replies as the men pack up the makeshift bar and load it onto a platform along the front of the truck.

“We should be heading back, as you’ll be a bit short on time before supper.” And with Nogo’s words, I am reminded that David is somewhere in this great place, likely showering in preparation for dinner or sitting in the lobby waiting for me and all my khakis and linens to arrive.

As we make our way back to camp, the night is still. Nogo and his flashlight search in vain for our criminal lions, another leopard, or wild dogs that seem to be the most elusive to find. Near the road that leads back to camp, a lone elephant stands dazed under a tree as if waiting for a group to catch up.

“What is he doing?” I ask pointing to the elephant as the truck passes by, as if deeming it unworthy of stopping.

“Oh, that is a sad old man, that one,” Nogo laughs. “He is an older bull, and when a male elephant is chased out of a herd, he usually lives the rest of his life alone. They don’t take him back.”

“Never? You mean he is forever isolated from his group.”

“Yes, except the occasional mating he steals from other herds. Maybe he makes another family, but very rarely, as once they are the bull they don’t play well with other bulls and are too old to win a fight for dominance. So they are alone.”

As we approach the camp, Tamaryn stands there again with her attendants ready with water and a refreshment towel. They are illuminated by a row of flickering candles that line the stairway to the main lodge.

“Welcome back. How was the game drive?”

“Still no sign of the Ferocious Five, but we saw the mum and cub that seem to be doing all right.”

“Has she gotten wind of them yet?” Tamaryn asks.

“No, but it can’t be far off,” Duarte replies.

My focus is now on my own primal desire and wonder whether David has made it to camp.

As their animal conversations continue, I make my way alongside Nogo into the main lodge hoping for my first glimpse that lingers in my mind when David is away.

“Um, Catherine!” Tamaryn yells from behind.

“I’m afraid David didn’t make it in on the last flight, so I assume he must have missed his flight or has been delayed.”

Her words echo through me as a cloud of uncertainty blocks all the serenity and clarity I felt just moments ago.

“He didn’t leave a message or call the office in JoBurg, so I would think he’s simply delayed and will be here in the morning,” she continues.

She handles me with the finesse my mother would use when my high school boyfriends would break up with me. My mind prepares my heart for the worst; David may not come at all. A sense of embarrassment overwhelms me, reddening my cheeks. Here I am, a grown woman with a family, leading this secret relationship with a man who probably has little more interest in me than a passing fling. Even worse, I’m willing to risk everything just to have a few minutes more with him.

“We don’t have a lot of time before dinner, Catherine, so just a freshen-up and Nogo will accompany you back to the lodge.”

I didn’t even respond to Tamaryn. I was afraid my voice would crack or she would read my morose face fraught with disappointment. All that is magical of Africa is wiped from my mind, and thoughts of David not even having the decency to e-mail or call the lodge to let me know his decision not to join or need to cancel. There was a silent, sullen melody that accompanied Nogo and me on our walk to my cabin, a journey I was reassured once again that I could not make on my own.

I collapse behind the door with the baboon lock pulled shut behind me. A feeling of nausea and doom coupled with my lack of sleep and jet lag overwhelm me. I get up and check the room, opening the closets and even looking inside the shower and along the terrace to make sure he wasn’t hiding as a joke or a wonderful surprise. Reason and sanity slip away as tears erupt. I think of his face, the scent that lingers in the nape of his neck, and then I imagine someone else holding her head close to his. Perhaps he’s met someone else; why wouldn’t he? A guy like that would have so many more options than with just someone like me.

My tears defy my mind’s attempt to insert reason into this moment. My chest echoes in a sullen melody. I imagine never again feeling the caress of his hand, hearing the gentleness of his words, and seeing his eyes that hold me even when weeks and weeks force us apart. My mind lurches back into the moments swimming in Rio, seeing him in the hallway of my Paris hotel, and that blissful, long night in LA. I quickly come to the realization it all may be over.

Although I search for reasons to believe, the simpler explanation seems the more obvious one. He must have met someone; he must have found someone who better fits him and his lifestyle. My mind cannot comprehend the thought of never seeing him again, never looking forward to the next e-mail, or never feeling the touch of his hand. This must be his parting routine, a vanishing act with no notice or explanation. Still, I hold onto the belief that he’s simply not that kind of man. I pull out my phone to double check if perhaps an e-mail or text has come through. But there truly is no service in this desolate span of southern Africa.