Heart of Africa (11 page)

I couldn’t know I slept for nearly three hours, unaware of encroaching danger. A harmless beige snake slithered near my nest, tongue flicking the air before retreating into the shadows. A brown and yellow ground squirrel, heartened by my lack of movement, dug frenziedly into the soil, its sole purpose survival. The midday sky glowed from a combination of sun and an advancing threat. The wind, suddenly shifting, drove licks of flame down the gentle slope, directly toward me.

Veldt fires are not remotely similar to the raging fires found in the Western United States. Here they are welcomed; their sluggish burning pace blackening the grass and replacing nutrients back into the soil to nurture the next generation. Controlled by fickle prevailing winds, they sometimes leave whole swatches of area untouched while completely scorching others. But I had no knowledge of these facts as I slumbered on, completely lost within the fatigue granted the weary and hopeless.

The ground squirrel’s nostrils twitched and in a profound moment of awareness, she dove into her hole, safe inside the coolness of her newly-burrowed haven. I awoke abruptly, sinuses burning. Straightening, I clunked my head against the rocky overhang and let out a curse, my hand automatically rubbing the sore spot before halting in mid-air as realization dawned. The air glowed mustard brown as I fought to breathe. Bolting from my hole, I froze. The veldt was on fire! The flames licked steadily at the tall, dry grass which crackled noisily, warning the living to flee. A thorn tree to my left exploded; the ensuing smoke and sparks angrily reached for the sky. Behind me, more dry thorn and acacia trees waited patiently for destruction. The fire advanced, its flames in some places only a few inches high but in others, towering two to three feet. It howled and danced in victorious glee while rapidly consuming the tick-infested grass.

Where was I to go, what was I to do? Heart pounding, I pondered my feeble options. I could climb a tree, but after observing the nearby spiny trees being eaten by flames, I realized that option could likely turn into my funeral pyre. The second choice was to leap across the low wall of flame near my left, but the scorched earth would probably melt my Nikes. The blackened shrub, stretching as far as my eyes could see in the hazy air, still burned spottily in places. There was no telling where unburned ground existed and if I took off without rhyme or reason, I could become lost in the haze or succumb to the relentless, choking smoke. Just above the overhang, a small bush with milky pale leaves exploded, forcing me to duck for cover. Eyes stinging, I crouched like a trapped rat, seeking escape from the swirling smoke.

So this was how it was to end, then: Mandy Phillips consumed in a brush fire’s relentless rage, her family, friends, and new lover forever pondering her fate. I brushed away a burning cinder and just by chance focused upon the recently-dug rodent hole. In a brainstorm I realized the tiny creature’s survival instincts were my only option: I must burrow into the still-cool earth, squirreling myself away from the killer flames. My parents had owned a cocker spaniel that had died peacefully of old age at fourteen. Though spaniels are not known to be diggers, this black-and-white speckled canine had torn through every garden my mother had planted, her capable paws shooting the dirt behind her in a frenzied quest for bones. I dug like old Gurdie now.

My once carefully-manicured nails became the first victim of my relentless burrowing. A remembered piece of advice from a war movie—keep low and protect your back—propelled me. The heavy stone above would do just that. Soon I’d fashioned an eighteen-inch deep burrow and backed into it. Unzipping my canvas bag to use as a shield, I placed my sweatshirt over my face to cover my stinging eyes while setting my half-filled water bottle near me as a last stand against the approaching flames.

The air crackled, the flames occasionally roaring high in their superiority. The heat, intense beyond belief, caused my skin to redden and pucker like a Thanksgiving turkey. The hellish next ten minutes felt more like an hour. Another explosion from one of the trees above the overhang echoed, the reverberation from the heavy crash of one of its large branches causing sand to dislodge from the roots and shower down on my head. Ironically, throughout this entire Dante-like nightmare, I swear I heard the sweet trill of a distant bird. By the end of the firestorm I was coughing and grunting like a dying smoker, struggling to burrow even deeper into my hole, but never truly able to escape the black fumes. Finally the victorious smoke toppled me, my haggard body resting in a semi-stupor.

As suddenly as it had begun, the wind shifted and the flames died back on themselves. I roused gradually, still dazed and hesitant to leave the safe haven of my den. I waited a long time, the continuous crackle of trees burning in the distance reminding me of how fragile an escape I’d made. I emerged cautiously. The fire had claimed a strange t-shaped area. The swath to the left of my haven was untouched; the other completely scorched. Smoke swirled everywhere, but a quickening wind enabled me to breathe easily. An approaching sight forced me to quickly duck back inside my shelter. A solitary black-and-white spotted civet, sporting its distinctive black mask, leaped from one un-scorched spot to another, bounding more like a springbuck than the raccoon-like carnivore it was. This usually nocturnal creature had, like me, been awakened from its sleep to try and escape the fire. Once she missed her mark and howling, rapidly leaped again. A hundred feet below my haven, she finally struck cool dirt and loped off, her usually spotted fur smudged even darker from the soot. She never even noticed me and was, like myself, a survivor.

My neighborly ground squirrel poked its head from the hole fronting my burrow. I remained completely still and watched her sniff the air. Head cocked, the small mammal noted my presence and subsequently bolted straight back into her hole. I ignored the little creature’s advice and emerged to observe the desolation around me. I could only imagine the sight I presented: jeans torn and stained, hands rubbed raw from digging, and my hair resembling the most despicable of witches. For some reason it all seemed quite funny and I broke into laugh. I laughed until I cried, and only stopped when my tears ran dry.

Chapter 12

I
don’t know exactly what forced me to start moving again.
Maybe it was the severity of the scorched earth around me, accompanied by my burning thirst that compelled me toward the river. I’d drained my water bottle, but my throat still stung. Before heading anywhere, I needed a refill. It took a good while to escape the smoke and small areas of burning brush, and it was only after twenty minutes that I encountered dry scrub again. The faint gush of the Limpopo sounded in the distance and like a man stranded in the desert, I forgot reason and sprinted for the river. My staff held loosely in my hand, I plunged recklessly down the embankment to finally kneel by the water and gulp wildly. When sanity finally returned, I filled my bottle and rinsed my hands and face. As I leaned over the water, my reflection revealed a frightening, smoke-encrusted hag and I closed my eyes against the sight of the bedraggled monster peering back at me.

It was with renewed determination that I returned to my old plan of following the river in hopes of eventually running into Crooks’ Corner. Nothing seemed as straightforward as before. I felt weak and nauseous—possibly from the effects of contaminated water—and my feet dragged. Another irritant set in as hunger gnawed at me, and I felt strangely achy and dizzy. To keep myself going I made up another of my stupid, mindless tunes.
Find the road and it’ll take you home, find the road and it’ll take you home
. The chant seemed to work as I staggered up the bank to follow the gentle bend of the river.

I would have been surprised to learn that I actually sang the words and perhaps it was that inane song that kept the predators and snakes away. Or maybe, far wiser than I, all sane creatures had vacated the area because of the fire. I tried alternating walking fifteen minutes and resting five. All the peanuts, biltong, and energy bars were soon gone and my stomach echoed like a hollow drum. A headache brought on by hunger coupled with the persistent glare of the sun nagged at me, and I found I needed rest stops more frequently.

I didn’t run into much wildlife. A petite yellow mongoose scampered across my trail, and gigantic black ants scrambled over a boulder. A group of five or six buzzards soared dizzily overhead and I heard a strange clacking sound in the distance, but other than that it seemed like I traipsed alone in the bush. Mentally I kept making calculations. Certainly I must come upon the road sometime soon, since it ran parallel to the river. But where was it? I teetered and stumbled more and more as the minutes stretched into hours. Gradually panic set in. I knew I’d been disoriented by the fire and the snake, but I couldn’t have totally lost track of my whereabouts, could I? Could I?

Damn my miserable sense of direction, anyhow! If I’d half the sense God gave a toddler, I’d have relocated the road by now and reunited with Peter, relating to him wildly embellished details regarding my torturous night in the bush. But no, here I trudged, perspiring, hopeless, and light-headed, alongside a riverbank from hell. Almost done in, my head jerked upward toward the faint roar of an engine. It took me less than two seconds to determine it was a helicopter.  Exhilaration followed the thought that Peter was likely spearheading the search for me!

Ascertaining it would be difficult for rescuers to catch sight of me in the underbrush entangling the riverbank, I plunged down the sandy cliffs into the relative openness of the river. The chopper’s engine churned, violently shaking the tops of the trees. From where I stood shouting, I could barely make out that it was a military helicopter. What resembled a camouflaged leg dangled out the door and I glimpsed the barrel of a rifle held in ebony hands. They appeared to be on the hunt of something, and I sincerely hoped it was me. I waved and hollered, but the helicopter didn’t approach any closer.

Yanking the sweatshirt from my waist, I flapped the gray jersey in the air, hoping to flag them down. Suddenly the helicopter swerved, zooming back to the South African side. A burst of gunfire filled the air, followed by the high-pitched shriek of an animal or human. Fool that I was, I bolted toward the direction of the gunfire, still convinced that those in the helicopter would save me. I jumped over half-buried logs, swerved past thorn trees with inch-long spikes, and startled a few speckled ground birds resembling fat quail as I pursued the diminishing hum of the helicopter.

So reckless was I that a thorny branch smacked me in the face, tearing the corner of my mouth as I hurtled through the bush. They were getting away! The chopper, now only a dime-sized speck in the sky, could scarcely be heard above the hum of the river. I abruptly pulled up, my staff no defense against the revolting sight greeting me. I’d seen photos of such inhumanity before, but had never witnessed such a thing first hand.

The rhino lay deathly still, its feet tucked awkwardly under its slack torso. The heavy, still body lay half-tilted toward the sun, already bloated and grotesque, flies swarming about the bloody hide. The poachers had cut off its horn; the matted, crimson stump was already turning black as the blood dried. Their victim had been shot twice point blank in the head and my heart ached to see such an awesome animal brought so low. Not far from the corpse, deep tire tracks, probably from the poacher’s truck, had scored the earth as the murderers sought to escape. Just beyond the clearing a half-dozen or so vultures hopped about, impatiently waiting for me to back off. The smaller, white-backed ones squabbled amongst themselves while two others, much larger and dirty-brown colored, eyed me. They were prepared, I guess, to fight for the carcass. The poachers had most likely been spotted by the helicopter as they performed their greedy surgery and fled, the military pursuing them through the concealing brush.

In despair I realized the helicopter hadn’t been searching for me at all but had been hunting the scourge of the game parks: the poacher. I wilted there in the hot, bright sun and sobbed. I cried not only because I was hungry, hot, lost and alone, separated from Peter, but also because of the gruesome horror inflicted upon such a beautiful animal for the supposed medicinal power hidden inside its horn. I sank down upon my knees and wept like there was no tomorrow.

I didn’t notice the shadow falling across my anguished form.

“Mandy?” grunted a raspy, familiar voice.

My head jerked up and there he stood, carrying a thick, hand-crafted spear instead of a rifle.

Peter lunged for me and I wept in earnest, my arms tightening in a choke hold around his neck.

“Peter! Peter, I was afraid you were dead!”

“But of course not, my dearest.”

“You found me, you found me!”

“Actually, only by the purest luck. I’ve been searching for you ever since those bastards abducted you.” He glanced about nervously. “Did you see them?” he asked, stroking my dirty hair. “Are they close by?”

I peered past where he stood in a blurry effort to identify those others he referred to.

“Who?” I asked dumbly.

A peculiar expression crossed his face. “The poachers. The army helicopter was chasing them.”

That minor fact just wasn’t that important. “You’re alive. I was afraid…”

“I know, I know my darling. But we can’t talk now. We need to get away from here.”

“But the helicopter… we’ve got to wait so it can rescue us!”

“No, Mandy. They’ll think we’re poachers and shoot us. We’ve got to move away from here and quickly. They will shoot first and ask questions later. Trust me. We’ve got to get out of Mozambique and back to South Africa.”

“We’re not on the South African side? We’re not close to Crooks’ Corner?”

Peter pulled at my arm and I allowed him to lead me away from the desecrated rhino. “Crooks’ Corner is completely in the opposite direction from here.”

I gazed at him blankly. “No, it isn’t. It’s just up there to the north a ways. I figured if I kept following the river, I’d hit it or the road in a few minutes.”

“I’m sorry to disagree, Mandy, but Crooks’ Corner is to the
southwest
. You’re in Mozambique and that helicopter was full of South African soldiers tracking down poachers. Mozambique turns a blind eye to the SA army crossing their borders for a little ‘man-hunting.’”

How could I have gotten so turned around? What Peter said was inconceivable. “But I was following the river,” I repeated obstinately.

“The river meanders like one huge snake. It took a sharp turn about two kilometers back and we, and the river, are now inside Mozambique.”

Peter paused to scrutinize me and I glimpsed the sparkle of humor in his dark eyes.

I could only imagine that unsavory vision with my hair falling out of its ponytail, clothes filthy and torn, and my anxiety barely held in check. I grasped my walking stick, color burning my face. Luckily the soot from the fire, mixed with blood from my torn cheek and mouth, disguised my blush. I must have resembled something a mangy alley cat might drag home.

Peter pulled off his safari hat and placed it upon my head to ward off the burning sun. He gently pulled at my arm again. “You tell me your tale later, but now we’ve got to keep going.” It was only then that I noticed he limped painfully and the fingers on his right hand were blistered.

“You’re hurt,” I managed.

“It’s nothing. I got burned when I climbed a tree to avoid the fire. I can’t believe you’re safe.” His voice broke a bit as he picked up the pace, his limp more noticeable. We trudged, silent for nearly fifteen minutes before Peter hesitated at a large outcropping of rock. He gingerly sank down in the sand, taking me with him.

I couldn’t stop the floodgate of tears and Peter, wise in most things, let me weep, cradling me in his arms. Nearly ten minutes later, I hiccupped and wiped my face with my sooty hand. He smiled crookedly and suddenly I felt reassured. A huge, dark millipede crawled near his boot and I jerked.

“Don’t fear the
shongalolo
,” Peter said. “It is perfectly harmless. “Now tell me everything that happened.”

I kept it as brief as possible. “This African man approached and mentioned he’d seen fresh lion tracks nearby. He grabbed me and pulled me from the jeep and started waving a gun. The hijacker commandeered the 4 x 4, and another white van followed us as they drove down a road parallel to the river. I knew they were going to kill or rape me, so at the first opportunity I managed to escape. I spent the night alone in the bush. You’d laugh, but I did manage to make a fire. This morning I encountered a herd of Cape buffalo crossing the river and afterwards was so tired that I fell asleep and a fire crept up on me. And then the rhino.” I paused, searching for words sufficient enough to describe my awful experience. “That’s all.”

My statement seemed so inadequate for all I’d been through that I was certain Peter would ask for more details, but my brief recital satisfied him. He was smart enough to visualize the rest. “How wondrously brave you were,” he finally said, pride brightening his dirty face.

My breath caught.  Me brave?  I managed, “And you, I swore I caught a glimpse of you running parallel to the river right after I was hijacked.”

“You did.”

“Tell me,” I urged.

A frown settled upon his haggard face as he draped his arm across my shoulder.

“One would think I was a rank amateur to the bush, Mandy. My first mistake was leaving the rifle in the jeep. No one in their right mind goes into the African bush without a firearm. And then…” His pause was poignant. “And then I spied a river monitor. They’re awesome creatures and I couldn’t resist heading down to the river to catch a closer peek. That noble gentleman was nearly a meter long from his tail to his nose and I watched him a good five minutes before Mr. Monitor hissed at me in indignation and sauntered away. I’d just started up the embankment when I heard voices and realized I was too far away to thwart your hijacking.”

“They would have killed you.”

“It’s highly likely,” he said wryly. “When they tore out, I started running. My reasonable, guide self ordered me to remain at Crooks’ Corner where I could flag down another vehicle and notify the authorities. But the other, more emotional part of me propelled my legs to follow you come hell or high water. If I lost track of you, I felt, no one would ever find you.”

“They meant to rape and kill me,” I confirmed shakily.

“For sure. I figured if they stayed to the dirt road, I’d have a fighting chance, but when they struck out into the deep bush there was no question about pursuing you.”

“I knew you would do all in your power to find me.”

“Luckily, the terrain was rough and their vehicles couldn’t proceed very quickly. It’s a miracle I didn’t run into any big game—I only startled a bushbuck in my mad dash. I tried to take a shortcut at a small rise and spied the two vehicles just below me. And then you did the craziest, bravest thing I’ve ever seen. You jumped from the jeep. I would have yelled bravo if I hadn’t spotted a pair of hijackers lighting out after you, guns blazing. I skirted them and was, at one point, within 100 meters of thug number one when he winged his own comrade. I crouched behind some shrubs and by that time, you’d crossed the river. You didn’t even notice the crocs and hippos.” He laughed mirthlessly. “My daring lady just ran for her life.”