Our
days at the Okavango Delta were much the same as our days at Chobe had been: up before sunrise, breakfast with my human projects, morning and evening game drives broken up by lunch and an afternoon siesta, then followed by high tea at sunset out on the savanna. Most would have considered it a peaceful existence, and yet I had a gnawing feeling of unrest. I was torn between my belief that I could somehow undo my fate with good behavior and my need to break free of the routine and accomplish everything I could before it was all over.
Instead of napping, Wilbur and I had taken to working out during our afternoon siesta time. This was for two reasons: First, it gave me a sense of control over my own fate. The more in shape I was, the less I felt the Angel of Death approaching. I knew that it was irrational thinking—that I could somehow exercise my cancer away—but the endorphin rush helped me to believe anything was possible. Second, exercise kept us occupied during a time of private togetherness. Since running was out of the question, Wilbur acted as my coach as I did sit-ups, push-ups, and all sorts of other various painful maneuvers used to get one into shape. To reciprocate, I taught Wilbur some yoga and Pilates—all of the numerous exercise routines I had become accustomed to engaging in for the sole purpose of maintaining the ideal that Evan had dictated for me.
Watching Wilbur stretch, flex, and sweat was so erotic that, at times, I could hardly maintain my composure. All of those years of repression were desperately trying to liberate themselves all at once. I wanted him to grab me and take me in some animalistic way. I wanted him to forget his manners, throw me down on the bed, and have his way with me despite any feeble protests I would surely utter. But part of the reason I liked him so much was that I knew he never would. And if I let go and took the situation into my own hands, it would mean that my bargaining had failed; I was giving into my sad truth, becoming an adulterous vixen who was just living for the moment.
No,
I had to stick to the plan.
Our afternoon routine was always followed by Wilbur taking a shower and me willing myself not to sneak a peek. There were no doors to the toilet or shower in th
at tented cabin either, so when I showered, I made sure to contort my body in the most flattering maneuvers I could manage and spend an extra amount of time lathering my breasts, just in case he caught a glimpse. Trying
not
to
have a physical relationship with Wilbur was one of the hardest things I’d ever done.
After our nightly dinner, Wilbur made a ritual out of attempting to share the art of meditation with me. He showed me how to combine the yoga positions that I already knew well with transcendental meditation. I had always thought of meditation as a way to declutter one’s mind in order to focus it on a single lofty and spiritual train of thought, but it’s really more about quieting your mind, not thinking about anything at all. It involves observing your thoughts, but then letting them float away—a task
which was nearly impossible for me, but I liked the idea. My mind was always riddled with confusing contemplation followed by my constant need to make decisions. Despite my efforts, I still sucked at meditating.
Eventually, our bedtime routine had evolved into what I suppose Jerry and I, in junior high, would have referred to as second base. I would always climb into bed first, partially dressed, eagerly anticipating Wilbur’s arrival. I would then pretend to be asleep, however, when Wilbur would gently tuck himself in behind me, for fear of what I might do if he knew I were awake. The truth was, Wilbur terrified me. While I frequently had thoughts during my marriage of what being with someone else might be like, having the flesh-and-blood possibility lying next to me was a whole other story. Wilbur would run his hands over the G-rated areas of my body, likely hoping for a reaction,
but I struggled to avoid giving him one. My only saving grace was the fact that we were so exhausted at night, sleep would rapidly overcome us, and the scenario was never mentioned the following morning.
One night, after we ate dinner and were escorted back to our tented cabins with our usual firearm-bearing protector, I decided to delve into the Wilbur Smith book that Clifford had loaned me. Still narcoleptic, I didn’t even get past the dedication before I fell into a deep slumber. I had no need to feign sleep for Wilbur, as I didn’t even remember him climbing into bed that night.
A few hours later, I was awakened by a sound, one very different from the African wake-up call. It was the drumming of the Natives, something similar to what I’d heard in Havasupai. I was drawn to it. I rose from the bed and moved over to the door. Without fear, I opened it and stepped outside.
And there she was.
Dancing. My mother was dancing and laughing, spinning around and around in the tall grass. She was holding a pomegranate high up in the air. Then suddenly, I saw the coyote stalking her, hiding in the bushes with that sinister grin. I tried to run and call out to her, but I couldn’t; I was frozen. I was only a spectator.
The coyote began to slither through the tall grass. He turned and looked right into my eyes as if
he was mocking me. He seemed to delight in my inability to save her, daring me to try. But my mother just kept dancing and laughing, oblivious to the coyote, and to me. At first, I couldn’t decipher whether he was after my mother or the pomegranate, but in a matter of seconds, the coyote sprang out of the grass and pounced on my mother.
I awoke with a start to find Wilbur wrapped around me. I was still lying comfortably in bed. But just outside the cabin there was rustling and odd, indistinguishable animal noises. I attempted to both interpret the noises and determine whether or not I might be having another lucid dream. I wanted to
wake Wilbur up, but I hesitated, remembering how Evan had reacted whenever I awakened him during the night: one would have thought the gates of Hell had opened up.
The noises continued getting louder and closer. I thought of my mother and the coyote. This time I was spooked. Was my mother luring me to join her? Was the coyote the Natives’ version of the Grim Reaper?
I lifted Wilbur’s arm from around me and grabbed the flashlight from the nightstand. I shined it wildly through the mesh window, trying, from the safety of the bed, to decipher what was going on out there in the black night. But my cowardly tactics failed; I couldn’t see anything. Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I reached over and shook Wilbur awake. If nothing else, it was a good opportunity to test his patience with me and see what he was really made of.
“Wilbur!”
“What’s the matter?” he groaned.
“There’s something out there! I think it’s a coyote!” I hissed in a panic.
He only half awakened and gave me a gentle rub.
“There aren’t any coyotes in Africa.”
“Don’t you hear that?” I prodded.
It
was so dark, I couldn’t even see his face.
“That’s just the lions calling to each other. They probably captured some prey,” he mumbled, casually rolling onto his side.
“
Oh, is that all?” I grumbled, half-convinced that the prey the lions had found were the current occupants of our tent.
I guessed that to Wilbur, it was just a run-of-the-mill night in Africa, but there was no way I was going to be able to sleep with the circle of life in full force
right outside—especially if I was at the center of the circle. With every bit of bravery I could muster, I crawled over to the mesh window and with shaking hands, again waved the flashlight around. I was terrified, but at the same time, I just had to determine what was going on out there. I searched for quite a while, calming my hands to a steady motion with the flashlight.
Finally, I spotted the smooth back of a hippo in the tall grass. The air was quiet and the hippo stood motionless as I stared. The poor creature was a sitting duck—like my mother had been—oblivious to the earlier calls of the lions, who were now eerily silent.
“The lions are hiding over there!” Wilbur suddenly exclaimed from over my shoulder.
I nearly jumped out of my skin
, swinging around so fast that I cracked him in the head with the flashlight. I’d never heard him get out of bed. He didn’t appear to be the least bit put off that I’d ruined his night’s sleep or that I’d nearly given him a concussion. He just rubbed his head then pointed.
“Look
! There they go! They must be really hungry. I’ve never seen lions go after a hippo!” Wilbur gushed like an excited schoolboy. “Hippos can cause a lot of damage before going down.”
There were four or five lionesses circling the hippo. We watched in tense anticipation as the lions systematically pounced on the hippo’s back as it tried to return to the water. They began to gnaw on its spine, immobilizing the hippo, so they could go in for the kill. The largest lioness clamped onto the hippo’s throat with her teeth and he went down for the count, just shy of the safety of the water
ing hole. Once the hippo was on the ground, the brush mostly impaired our view; however, we could still hear the chomping and growling of the lions devouring their feast.
Wilbur grabbed a pillow and a blanket and we
lay together on the floor in the dark, next to the mesh window, listening intently to the sounds of the lions delighting in their kill. It proved to be the most strangely romantic and disturbing night of my short life.
Our last night at the Delta was another celebration of traditional African culture. We shared another meal to be eaten with our hands, but this time the staff served us all equally. There was no need for us to bow down on our knees in subservience to our men. Instead, Edison delivered a lecture on the myriad of other ways African women are expected to express their subordination. For instance, in traditional African culture, men do not perform household chores.
Nowadays, many younger African men have come to abandon this way of thinking, but never in front of their elders. If a man is caught washing dishes or cooking, his parents would quickly accuse his wife of bewitching him with a “love potion.” In others words, no man in his right mind would ever help his wife with domestic duties unless he was under some sort of hex or spell. Edison found the appalled female reaction to this revelation quite amusing, but he refused to admit one way or the other whether he was a bewitched dish-doer himself.
After the discussion, the staff performed traditional
dances and songs of the area around a huge bonfire. Once again, it reminded me of Havasupai—of the dancers spinning ’round and ’round and the trance I fell into as I watched them. I imagined my mother dancing amongst them. It had been so nice to see her, even if it had been only in a vivid dream. Then I remembered the man with the black eyes, and it shook me out of my nostalgic trance. The old Native man who had asked me “Why are you here?” I still didn’t know the answer. Why was I anywhere? I had yet to serve a purpose in my life; my death still wasn’t going to make a difference.
I fixed my eyes on Raashi
da, who danced in a much more high-energy fashion than I’d thought possible for her late stage of pregnancy. I’d seen enough pregnant women in my nursing career to guess that she was close to term. Because of this and so many other reasons, I found her mesmerizing. The way she spun and laughed was reminiscent of the dream I’d had of my mother the night before. I felt, in that moment, that my mother was trying to tell me something about Raashida. She was special in some way—important.
I had found myself envious of Raashi
da at times—jealous of her youth and her sweet smile, but mostly of her capacity for reproduction. She embodied everything I was never to have, or at least that’s how I interpreted it. She must have a special love, I thought. One that made her so happy, she was able to maintain her constant sweet smile. Or the baby—maybe that’s what did it: the promise of a new life. Whatever it was, I wanted a taste of it—just a morsel—simply to experience that kind of contentment and joy, even for a day. I wanted to know her secret. She seemed to have the feeling I’d experienced atop the Piazzale Michelangelo, gazing upon the red rooftops over Florence. It was the one time I’d felt as though I were truly living in that exact moment. Only, hers was a continuous string of perfect moments, not just a fleeting solitary one.
I was unable to take my eyes off Raashi
da as the other staff members took turns dancing with her. Then she grabbed us all, one by one, pulling us into her personal party. I danced out of obligation; I couldn’t extract the same joy from it as she did, but I couldn’t stop wondering about her. I wanted to know her story. Why had she traveled with us from camp to camp while all the others had stayed behind? Why, when all of the other staff had been so open about their lives, had she remained silent? Most spoke of their homes and families at mealtime, but not Raashida. And Edison was never far away from her, which drove me to the conclusion that Edison must be Raashida’s husband, or at least the father of her baby. I imagined that, for similar reasons as Wilbur’s not wanting the guests to know he was the owner of the travel company and accommodations, Raashida and Edison did not want to divulge their personal relationship.
All of the African camps were in the boondocks, far away from civilization, which meant that many of the employees of the camps lived a good distance away, and some even lived in other African countries. So Wilbur had come up with the arrangement that they would work for three months at a time, and then travel back to their homes to spend four weeks with their families. It made sense now that Raashi
da had been following us from camp to camp. She wanted to stay close to her husband.