Stiletto Safari (15 page)

On the upside, I was the only volunteer with the foresight to bring gloves! So while everyone else was mucking about in the scraps, I was clad in pink nylex up to my elbows. I might not have been having regular manis and pedis, but at least my nails still looked passable and my hands didn’t smell like garbage.

My real contribution to food preparation was, however, instigating a new system for sorting scraps. It was ridiculously simple. I got four big garbage bins and put them in the volunteer dining area. The bins were labeled “meat scraps—no bones,” “vegetable scraps,” “miscellaneous other—no shells,” and “rubbish—will kill animals.” Within a few days, all the volunteers were using the bins, and food preparation was reduced from a four-hour ordeal to a thirty-minute task with no sorting required.

Given that I was the “brains” behind the new system, I got my pick of which animals to feed. I nearly always picked the baby baboons. They each received two bottles of milk a day. While they suckled on their bottles they were super cuddly. Their hair was soft and fine and they had beautiful big brown eyes. They also smelled good due to their daily shampoo baths.

Due to my rubbish revolution, I was widely known and liked around the volunteer camp. After all, I’d found everyone an extra three-plus hours a day to rest, relax, sun-bake, and catch up with friends.

The work I liked best was the pure research work. For starters, it was clean—no scraps involved. Second, it was interesting and usually involved wild game counting or tracking. Third, Hamish was back from his mystery trip and was the coordinator.

To my horror, I had developed a full-blown crush on Hamish. I couldn’t rationalize my feelings in any way—he wasn’t my type
and
he was probably dating Sasha Friend. Yet I found myself thinking about him all the time. It was totally infuriating! What was wrong with me?

To try and take my mind off Hamish, I spent a lot of time hanging out with other people at the volunteer camp. I had two good girlfriends, Patricia from Brazil and Im from Switzerland. Patricia was a dead ringer for Sandra Bullock and was hilarious. Im was a real sweetheart. Both were in their late twenties. Every night we’d hang out together, either at the camp or up at Ismail and Amy’s. It was almost like being at home with the girls.

Ismail and Amy were the best, and I spent a lot of time with Ismail in particular. Without exception, he was the nicest guy. More than once I wondered why I just couldn’t be attracted to him. But try as I might there was no chemistry.

Ismail and I spent a lot of our spare time bushwalking. Typically, our walks would take us past the school. Invariably Gabi would be waiting for us, and on weekends she’d scamper along. It was clear that Gabi and Ismail adored each other. They would amuse themselves talking about patients and weird diseases. I now had every confidence that Gabi would become a doctor. She could reel off the most freaky facts.

Even though I was no longer dorm mistress, my popularity at the school had continued to grow—no doubt due to my iPad. Fortunately, the new dorm mistress was happy to let the girls watch movies on weekends. Secretly, I think she enjoyed them just as much as the girls. Hollywood had certainly served as an icebreaker!

Now that I was on friendly terms with the girls, I found myself regularly providing advice on boys, sex, and life after school. I was happy to help out. These girls needed a modern role model. Plus, providing advice made me feel less fraudulent about being an inspirational
Vogue
role model!

While I was busy dispensing useful advice to the girls, however, my own life was still in ruins. Obviously, I needed to stay in Namibia until my
Vogue
interview, but after that I wasn’t so sure. The thought of returning to my old life no longer seemed that appealing. This worried me. Wasn’t New York my dream lifestyle? Didn’t I love being a lawyer? Was I having some kind of early-life crisis?

Disturbingly, it seemed that I wasn’t the only one having doubts. Sal was looking for a new job and Emi was off to France. Since I’d been away, she and Henri had further developed their yoga school concept, and she was going to do an intensive six-month yoga training course in the South of France.

So in the space of a few months I’d lost Nick, Emi to France, and Sal sooner or later to a new job.

Chapter 24

“S

o, Zara, how would you like to come on a medical emergency trip with me? You know, so you can pad out your
Vogue
interview with a bit of
real
work.” It was Sunday, and Ismail and I were turning sausages on the barbecue. All the usual suspects had gathered for drinks and dinner. The air was warm, and for once I didn’t have a care in the world.

Ever since I’d told Ismail about my
Vogue
feature, he’d been ribbing me. Still, he had a point. If I did some medical work, I’d be able to talk about my experiences as a teacher, a wildlife volunteer, and a medical volunteer.

“A real emergency or a rich tourist ‘emergency’?” I retorted, not wanting to sound too eager.

“The latter, of course. There’s no way I’d take you to a real emergency; you’d be a nuisance,” Ismail jokingly replied.

“In that case, I would love to come,” I answered, quickly adding, “I’ll run it past Hamish given that I’m officially in his group, but I’m sure he won’t mind.”

“Good. It sounds like I’ll need to visit one of the lodges up north tomorrow; a honeymooner is apparently close to death.” Ismail rolled his eyes dramatically.

“Excellent.” I enthusiastically clapped my hands together. “As they say, one man’s pain is another’s gain, and I need a bit of luxury and glamor right now. Are we going somewhere good?”

“Oh, only one of the best lodges in Africa,” Ismail smugly answered.

“Ismail, you’ve made my day!” I said, planting a friendly kiss on his cheek.

“So what’s going on over here?” Hamish had joined us on the pretext of checking our cooking and had wedged himself between me and Ismail. Every time Hamish stood close to me I felt a little buzz of excitement. Yes, I was twenty-nine going on sixteen!

“If it’s okay with you, Hamish, I’d like to skip tomorrow’s research drive and go on a medical trip with Ismail.”

“Sure; where are you going?” Hamish sounded like he was trying to keep his voice light, but there was an annoyed edge to it. Or maybe I was just imagining it.

“Klein’s Lodge,” Ismail distractedly replied while trying to rescue the sausages from a flare-up.

“Well, I’m sure you two will have a great time together.” Hamish now sounded quite put out, and he went back inside without a further word.

Early the next morning, Ismail and I drove to the local landing strip. It was so exciting to be visiting the lodge!

We flew in a tiny plane for about an hour. It was hard to believe that Namibia was home to thousands of animals. From the air the landscape looked beautiful, but positively empty.

I turned to Ismail to see how he was enjoying the view, but he was fast asleep. Typical!

We touched down at the private landing strip on the outskirts of a national park. The strip was reserved for the rich, the seriously rich, and for medical emergencies. A jeep was waiting and whisked us away to the lodge along a very dusty, pothole-riddled road.

The assistant manager had come to collect us and was busy updating Ismail on the status of the patient. The patient was an Italian in his early forties named Fabio. He had arrived at the lodge two days before and had almost immediately started complaining: first about having to share a jeep with other guests, then about the souvenirs in the gift shop being too expensive, and finally about stomach cramps.

Fabio was on his honeymoon, and his new wife had become hysterical, insisting that the hotel call a doctor. She had been crying all morning and had refused to leave his side. Obviously his life insurance wasn’t very good I thought wryly.

The whole thing sounded like a ridiculous case of hypochondria to me, but hey, I’m not a doctor—just a pretend teacher/researcher/ex-lawyer.

We swung into the driveway of the hotel, which seemed to be made up of a collection of mud-brick villas. Each villa commanded a sweeping view of the desert.

When we arrived, Ismail grabbed his medical case from the back of the jeep and we were escorted to Fabio’s villa. I tagged along with the aim of trying to calm his wife down. Apparently, she’d been quite the nightmare.

Nothing could have prepared me for the interior of the villa. The inside was total crazy opulence—it was African tribal meets Versailles! Three-meter-high windows overlooked the landscape. An enormous chandelier hung gracefully in the center of the room, and in the corner a fire crackled between two heavy leather armchairs (deserts get cold, after all).

Our patient was propped on one of the armchairs with his feet stretched out on a zebra-skin footstool (faux, I hoped). To my unpracticed eye he didn’t look particularly sick—just overweight and sunburned. His wife was hovering over him. She was a pretty blonde who looked to be in her mid-thirties, dressed in a white tank top and figure-hugging khaki pants complete with embroidered giraffes.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re here,” she said in shaky English, rushing to take my hand. “Please help my husband. He is very sick.”

I stood aside to let Ismail pass and explained in careful English, “This is the doctor. He is very good and will help your husband.”

Fabio’s wife looked temporarily embarrassed. Apparently she had assumed Ismail was just there to carry the bag.

Ismail gave the two Italians a warm, easy smile and said “Now, what appears to be the problem?”

I was too busy looking around the gorgeous room to bother listening in. I’d spied yet another chandelier dangling gloriously over an enormous bathtub. Bouquets of pink roses in glass vases adorned the room.

What a waste being sick in a palace (after the volunteer camp, that was exactly what the villa looked like). I was fantasizing about a giant bubble bath when Ismail’s soothing tones brought me out of my reverie.

He was explaining to Valeria, the new wife, that her husband wasn’t going to die; he just had a touch of gastro. By now Fabio was lying stretched out on the king-size bed, clutching his stomach protectively. Ismail’s stethoscope was hanging loosely around his neck and he was fishing through his bag for the appropriate pills. He pulled them out with a little flourish and assured both patient and wife that within three hours of taking two pills the symptoms would start to ease, and that a full recovery was only a few hours away.

“Thank you, my friend,” Fabio hoarsely whispered, grasping Ismail’s hand. Valeria was all smiles. She pulled out her iPhone and started busily texting.

Seeing my opportunity to beat a hasty retreat, I whispered to Ismail that I’d meet him outside. Valeria, however, had other plans. She’d finished texting and was now waving her iPhone in my direction. In shaky English she said, “Look, my wedding.”

I gave an inward sigh and resigned myself to flipping through wedding pictures. I had to admit that Valeria made a very pretty bride. She was wearing a gorgeous long fitted backless dress. I recognized the dress as Vera Wang. Let’s just say I’d bought a few wedding magazines in anticipation of Nick popping the question. “Beautiful,” I said, pointing to the dress. Valeria took the phone to see which photo I was admiring. She then flipped to a photo of Fabio and said, “Him,” pointing to the man prostrate on the bed. We both laughed. The juxtaposition between suited-up, newly married Fabio and pale gastro Fabio was quite funny.

Valeria, not very discreetly, pointed at Ismail. “Boyfriend?”

“No,” I quickly responded.

“Very handsome, no? Maybe boyfriend later?”

I could feel myself blushing. Ismail was still stuffing around with his bag. Hopefully he hadn’t been following the conversation. I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea.

“I think we’re done,” Ismail said, snapping the lock on his bag. “Fabio, please rest and drink plenty of fluids. I’ll be here for a few hours, so if you need me, please don’t hesitate to call for me. Valeria, it was a pleasure meeting you.”

Still blushing, I passed Valeria her phone and also said my goodbyes.

“What’s up with you?” Ismail asked as we left the villa. “You’re bright red.”

Good; he hadn’t heard Valeria’s comment or he wouldn’t have asked. “Nothing; it was just seriously hot and stuffy in there with that fire,” I mumbled.

“Really? I didn’t even notice. I thought you liked the heat, anyway.”

I decided to change the topic. “Come on, he was faking it, wasn’t he?”

Ismail shrugged his shoulders before diplomatically saying, “Some people react differently to pain than others.”

The assistant manager, Takawanda, was hovering nervously on the terrace of the main building. When he saw us, he rushed over. Ismail explained the prognosis and Takawanda looked visibly relieved. I guess no manager wants a dead tourist on their watch!

“Please, now you must have lunch,” Takawanda said, waving us in from the terrace. The dining room was just as beautiful and over the top as the villa. High-backed chairs were arranged around delicate French-styled tables, which in turn were adorned with crystal wineglasses. We were ushered to a private table for two and the feast began.

First course: drunk prawns, so called because they were served in a champagne foam. Second course: a fillet of fresh Nile perch poached to perfection and served with a delicately spiced couscous salad.

I’m embarrassed to say that after life in the volunteer camp, I practically fell over the food. I savored every taste and texture. It seemed I wasn’t the only one, because Ismail and I hardly spoke.

While the first two courses were amazing, the piece de resistance was, in my opinion, an orange chocolate terrine. I hadn’t had chocolate in such a long time and I relished the smooth, rich, velvety taste.

Seeing me enter a state of chocolate-fueled ecstasy, Ismail pushed his dessert toward me, saying, “I’m pretty sure this has your name on it.”

I half-heartedly protested, “But this is the best bit! You really should have it, Ismail.”