Heart of Africa (13 page)

Chapter 14

The elephant had unnerved me more than I cared to admit,
so Peter switched to the role of game guide as we walked, in order to distract me. When a high-pitched
kee-kee
sounded above me, Peter gestured toward a small eagle circling silently. A light tan color with a shadowed head and dark wings underneath, the raptor released a high-pitched cry.

“That’s a booted eagle, very common and found everywhere. Loves to eat rodents. Ah, hear him now; he’s screeching
peee-peee-peee
because he’s on the trail of something. The mongoose better beware.”

Peter motioned toward a huge, barrel-shaped tree with strong, entangled roots. “That is one of the most common trees in Kruger: the wild fig. It casts deep shade in the summer. And that tall one there… that’s a shepherd tree and has wide velvety leaves. And there’s another common hook thorn like I pointed out earlier.”

I’d made acquaintance with several of these trees before, but hadn’t known their names. “Why do so many trees have thorns?” I asked, pointing at the sharp pairs of dangerous barbs.

“It’s a tough life,” he shrugged. “Everything wants to eat something else. The grazers and browsers want to consume the trees and the shrubs and unless the vegetation finds a way to keep the majority of the predators away, they perish. So trees like this form thorns. However, the giraffe and selected others can still pluck the leaves daintily from between the barbs. That’s why most trees use tannins as their best defense to keep from being browsed too much.”

“Tannins? I’ve heard of that somewhere. Doesn’t it have something to do with tanning hides?”

Peter whirled, his teeth bright in his dirty face and very clearly pleased. “That’s right. Early settlers and tribesmen learned to remove tannins from these trees to cure their hides. I’m surprised that you know that, my lady.”

“I think I saw it on a nature show once,” I stated sheepishly. “But you were explaining about the tannins.”

“Yes, well these trees have tannins inside their stems, bark, and leaves. When a tree has been grazed too much, the tannin level rises, causing the browsers to dislike the foul taste and move away. It’s one method the trees use to save themselves. It’s crucial that they flower and create berries and seeds.

It was almost as if trees could think. I tucked this amazing fact away in my brain. I stepped gingerly over a fallen log and then started. A mass of large brown bugs similar to ants scurried over the rotting surface.

“What are they?” I asked Peter.

He moved closer. “Just termites. They made that convenient mound we hid in while the elephant rampaged. Termites exist everywhere in the park. As you can see, this tree has been disturbed recently, which provoked the termites. They dislike light. In fact …” His eyes narrowed. “I want you to remain here for a moment, Mandy. I need to check something.”

Holding a tanned hand up to shade his eyes, Peter quickly scanned the dense woodland.

“Aha,” Peter said. He pointed solemnly to the ground and I saw large heaps of finely formed black dung, clods the size of a fist. It was scattered everywhere, and I noted that the surrounding vegetation had been trampled down.

Peter glanced at me and shook his head. “This is not good.”

The shiny dung seemed familiar. “What is it?” I asked, crossing my arms protectively across my breast, my suspicions raised.

“The Cape buffalo. They’ve passed here not more than an hour ago. Their dung is just now being infested by beetle and fly.”

“Can we go around?”

“Perhaps. I need to determine what direction they’re heading. Hopefully, they’re not making for the river.”

“That must be the herd I noticed crossing the Limpopo earlier.”

“Then you understand the danger.” He gazed at me keenly. “You know they’re one of the Big Five, so named because they’re one of the most dangerous animals to hunt. Any self-respecting trophy hunter must bag a Cape buffalo from Africa. They generally occur in large herds, often spreading out over a couple of kilometers as they migrate. It’s too easy to run into a solitary male or bachelor herd and then big trouble follows. Once, while driving a pair of German tourists, an angry buffalo chased after my jeep for over three kilometers. The Germans believed it great fun, never recognizing the danger. Cape buffalos are very irritable creatures.”

“Just like that rogue elephant?”

“Yes, but he had an excuse. He has a toothache. Cape buffalos are mean for meanness’ sake.”

I sank down upon a log, but not without first examining it. “So, what do we do now?”

Peter wavered before sighing. “Wait here, lass. I need to scout around. It wouldn’t be wise to be caught in between parts of the herd.”

Peter searched the bushes and laid my large stick next to my feet. “I’ll keep the spear if that’s okay with you?” he asked politely.

I nodded, understanding.

“I’ll be back just now,” he stated before disappearing into the bush. When the minutes ticked ominously to twenty-five, I started to panic. Certain I needed to defend myself, I picked up my staff and rested it across my knees, my fidgeting churning up the dirt between my feet.

I observed many birds and creatures while I rested there in the partial shade of the thorn tree. One black-headed, long-tailed little creature hopped up not three feet from me, giving a long, trilling
trrrrrrr
noise similar to an alarm clock. It had an orange face and shaggy crest, and I wished Peter was there to identify the noisy rodent.

Later, a couple of yellow-billed hornbills came and picked at the dung, dispersing several beetles as they searched for edible bits. A chestnut bird that reminded me of a finch hopped from branch to branch, and a few rusty-breasted birds I felt certain were swallows darted between the trees. For a moment, a wave of homesickness swept over me as I remembered the swallows that gathered mud to make their circular homes under the eaves of my so-distant condominium. It was chilly here in the partial shade and I missed the warm sun of Florida, with its broad, expansive beaches. But what I missed most that vanquished sense of security. I was no longer firmly in control of my life.

A long millipede passed less than six inches from the toe of my trainers and disappeared behind my resting knapsack, but I decided that if I didn’t bother it, it wouldn’t bother me. What had Peter called it—a
shongololo
? A couple of times I heard a crackle in the bush and sat very still, hoping it wasn’t a hungry predator. Where on earth was Peter? I glanced at my wristwatch. It had been thirty minutes!

Peter finally appeared, acting like he’d been gone no more than five minutes.

“I was starting to get worried.” I complained like a nagging wife. “You said you’d be right back.”

“Did I? There’s a very large herd of Cape buffalo spread out over a couple kilometers and moving away from us. It’s very likely part of the herd you encountered earlier. They’re heading for the water, but unfortunately doing so at a very slow pace. We need to switch direction and skirt the back of the herd. I don’t wish to run into any of the impatient young males who’ve formed bachelor groups at the rear. They’re frisky and unpredictable.”

I remembered their frenzied plunge into the water as their thrashing hooves churned up crocs and mud. There was no way I wished to face any of them on foot. Rising, I nodded and shouldered my backpack.

“You’re hungry,” he acknowledged, the pinched look on my pale face making it a fact. I nodded solemnly.

“I have just the thing for two hungry wanderers. Think you could make a fire again?”

I smiled. “I still have some matches.”

“I’ll gather some wood.”

The nearly smokeless fire sent up an almost invisible wisp of vapor into the trees. By the time it had risen above the fig and thorn trees, it was rendered indiscernible to the human eye. My stomach rumbled noisily as I watched in fascination as Peter removed his hunter’s knife and started working on the two huge yam-like roots he’d dug up. He trimmed off the sweet potatoes’ skins competently before slicing the root into flat hamburger-sized patties and folding them inside large leaves. He shoved the yams under the flames. Immediately, they began hissing.

Peter had speared a small muskrat, which he skinned efficiently before suspending the small carcass over the fire, turning it every so often. A wonderful odor soon filled the air. Now, I’ve never been very fond of sweet potatoes, always passing up that particular proffered dish at Thanksgiving and Christmas, since I avoid carbs at all costs. But as Peter cut the muskrat’s flesh sparingly into small bite-size pieces spread over the now-smoking slices of yam, I had to admit I’d never smelled anything more appetizing in my entire life. Our plates consisted of two large flat leaves from a branch of a small bush.

Peter dusted them off on his pants and held one out to me with a flourish.

“Your plate, ma’am.” He stabbed a sweet potato and lifted it onto my leaf, proceeding to stack three additional steaming slices, one atop the other.

“They will be very hot,” he warned before sitting down in the dirt to eat, breaking off pieces of his own yam with his fingers. It was the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted. The yam, cooked through and filled with rich flavor, perfectly complimented the muskrat, which added protein. I passed Peter my water bottle, the water tasting much fresher and cleaner than before. Whether it was my acute appetite, or Peter’s comforting presence, I felt great.

“Do you notice the spoor of the buffalo in the dry mud?”

I leaned toward where he pointed. Indeed, several clear imprints existed, a good two to three inches long and pressed deeply into the soil to reveal the creature’s massive weight. Two blunt horn impressions facing each other resembled a domestic cow’s hoof print.

“Only one?” I asked nervously.

“As far as I can tell, a big one. Perhaps eight hundred kilograms or more.”

Eight hundred kilograms. I did a swift calculation. If there are 2.2 pounds to a kilo, then… I whistled. The Cape buffalo weighed in at a hefty 1,700 pounds. I gulped. At 120 pounds, I was no match for Mr. Irritability.

“So,” Peter said, wiping his greasy hands upon his khaki trousers. “We must travel a bit more before making camp.”

“Camp! Camp? But I hoped we were going to reach the road.” I tried to keep my voice even, but failed.

He pointed to the sky, whose light had suddenly faded. “Within less than an hour it will be dark. We’ll walk to where there is water and set up. We don’t have much choice, Mandy. We can’t get around the buffalo in time to reach the road and flag someone down. It’s nearly sunset.”

My face must have shown my anguish. “But I want to get back now! I can’t spend another night in the bush!”

Peter’s warm eyes found mine as he reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze. “We’ll going to make it, lass,” he promised quietly before adding lightly. “You know, people pay me damn good money for walking safaris like this.”

“I know,” I said shakily. “And you’re worth every dime.” We gazed a long while at one another before he leaned forward and lingeringly kissed my chapped lips.

He reluctantly pulled away and added mischievously, “I suspect it
is
probably best we know one another a sight longer before I meet your mother.”

Blood suffused my face, before I managed a grin. The thought of Peter sparring with my mother lifted my mood considerably.

“I need to go over
there
for a second.” I groped around in my backpack for the last remaining Kleenexes and leaned my walking stick against a crumbling gray log.

“Beware, sweet lady. There are red ants whose life’s pleasure is to wait for squatting women so they can sting their bottoms.”

I giggled and stalked off. Peter called after me. “When you are finished, wait by the acacia tree. I’ll scout out the area, which will give you an illusion of privacy.”

I moved away as far as I felt was safe and squatted over a small indentation in the sand. This time it was easy to go. It’s amazing how twenty-four hours in the bush takes away your modesty.

I waited impatiently by the acacia tree, noting the air had turned chilly. While Peter was correct about not traveling so close to dusk, I’d so much have preferred a hot bath and warm, shared bed. Lost in that pleasant fantasy, I started when the late afternoon suddenly burst open in a frenzy of movement.

“
Shumba
!” Peter cried.

He hurdled over a downed tree, a lioness not a hundred yards behind him. Peter sprinted full speed, Olympic quality, his knees tucked high like the best hurdler. I watched, powerless to alter the massive feline’s burst of energy. Peter cast a frenzied glance over his shoulder and I recognized the cat was gaining. I had a choice. I could either stand by like all those helpless women in fairy tales and male-dominated movies I’d despised forever, or I could do something.

My staff rested near my backpack, out of reach. I searched the brush and grabbed a thick, dirt-encrusted stick. It was covered in thorns, but I scarcely registered the stabbing pricks as I raised it above my shoulders. A member of the softball team in high school, I still played with the local women’s league whenever I found time. Bat held ready, I lunged forward to where the lion advanced at breakneck speed. It was now or never. The beast was so intent on her prey, she must not have seen me. I swung, putting every ounce of effort into the blow, and managed to strike the huge feline directly across the muzzle. The satisfying crunch of her nose crumbling under the force of the blow filled the late afternoon air.