Authors: Loren Lockner
“I’ve told you before; he was not a poacher. You’ve committed a crime against an innocent man and I’m going to turn you in to the proper authorities!”
Sergeant Magandi appeared puzzled. “Your
so-called
friend raised his spear at us. Innocent men do not attack the military.”
“He was only trying to protect me,” I whimpered.
My rescuer’s face softened. “I think I understand. It is a woman’s nature to grieve for even the most callous of men, even a
tsotsi.
”
“I’m begging you. Send the jeep downstream. His name is Peter Leigh. Check with Kruger Park’s headquarters. He’ll be on their roster as one of their tourist guides. Please.”
Thabo Magandi hesitated before barking out something to his men. One of them eased his rigid stance and stooped to retrieve my pack, which he respectfully gave me.
What causes the sprite Mercy to elevate her bedraggled head during such tragedy? I have no knowledge from where this phenomenon springs and why some men live their entire lives without a shred of it, while others suddenly exhibit it out of the blue. Thabo was one such man. His eyes gentled as he studied my wild, disheveled form, and took pity upon me.
“It is clear,” he announced to his half-dozen troops, “that this man is important to Miss Phillips. Radio Private Lwazi and have B Unit search downstream.”
When no one moved, he turned abruptly and shouted in a rapid tribal tongue. The youngest of the group peered unblinkingly at him.
“Yebo,”
[3]
he said finally, and shouldered his rifle. Two of the men stalked over to examine the butchered kudu, while the others sidled up to their vehicle, their backs to me, to begin barking into a walkie-talkie.
In a nearby tree, a beautiful gray lourie with dark, haunting eyes, who now I could identify because of Peters’s tutelage, called out
heey-heey
. Peters’s voice, its memory still rich in timbre, echoed in my ears.
The grey lourie is evil. She rested upon our roof the day my father’s farm was overrun and called “Go away, go away.”
And now there she perched, whining nasally “
waaaay, kay-waaaay
,” over and over again. The translation was simple: Wake up stupid woman, you are asleep. Go away—
kay-waaay
from Africa—you bring bad luck! Wake up and face the reality of Africa and the rest of the world: some people matter and others don’t.
The lourie mocked my dismal state for another full five minutes as I crouched in the dirt and chaos reigned about me. Resigned and still disbelieving, I finally rose and gathered up my tattered knapsack before heading to the waiting truck. Later, in the rear of the vehicle, as it roared and bumped along the rocky road belching black smoke into the purity of the African bush, I wept.
Chapter 23
For all those who state that South Africans are inefficient,
heartless, and hopelessly mired in endless bureaucracy, I must confirm that, at least in this instance, they are all wrong. I was treated, after those traumatic events, with only the utmost civility and kindness. A helicopter carried me to Louis Trichardt, a city not far from the Punda Maria gate, and deposited me in the local hospital. There, I was endlessly prodded and poked until finally being pronounced fairly fit. I suffered from a mild case of head lice, bug bites, and numerous ticks that had escaped Peter’s scrutiny, as well as countless bruises and scratches. Numb, I was wheeled into a semi-private hospital room for overnight observation. I took a long, hot shower and was presented a nutritious meal. The American Embassy in Pretoria, after being notified of my mishap, promised to send out a representative the very next day.
My wallet, passport, and camera were missing from the remains of the trashed jeep, and I could not leave the country without some form of identification and cash. A middle-aged Afrikaner man, the florid-faced representative of Kruger Park, contacted the camp in Shingwedzi and my room was emptied. It was there they found Peter’s bag, clothing, ID, and park badge.
Mr. Pretorius promised a full-blown search for Peter’s body and later returned with clean clothes and my plane ticket, the latter which I had thankfully left in a drawer by the bed. The rest of my belongings would follow. Frankly, as his portly figure disappeared through the swinging door, I could not even remember exactly what those other belongings were. I wanted nothing from Peter’s and my room. My heart had morphed into ice. I was surprised the doctor could even find a heartbeat.
Once the sympathetic Kruger representative had departed, a bustling African nurse fussed and cooed over me, her delightfully rounded countenance exuding a maternal and soothing sense of order as she tucked me in just like my mother used to and begged me to try and sleep after my “dreadful ordeal.”
“You call me or another Sister if you need anything, Mama. Try to sleep.”
The lights of the pale room dimmed, the room door swished, and only the faint scurry of busy hospital staff passing occasionally outside the small window of my swinging door indicated the hospital still functioned. All abandoned me to supposedly sleep and get better. Instead I lay rigid, my fists clenched as the vision of Peter’s bullet-ridden body sailing over the cliff, and Thabo’s hollow explanation regarding his death, crowded out any possibility of sleep.
It was that final, horrible realization that I’d been able to do nothing to save my innocent, cherished Zimbabwean that finally overwhelmed me. I remembered my earlier thoughts—had it only been just that morning after we’d witnessed the trampled refugees’ bodies in the wash?—regarding people’s destinies. Couldn’t we have taken another path or found a tourist road? For hours I rehashed every memory and every step that had led my beloved Peter to the anti-poaching troops. Why had God or fate intervened, snuffing out Peter’s life and leaving me here alone, to tremble cowardly under the thin hospital sheet as I recognized I had been the real culprit in his demise?
The kindly nurse had placed the battered backpack and my meager personal belongings, fetched by Mr. Pretorius, inside the small cabinet beside my hospital bed. I leaned over and removed the small notebook where I had recorded all my sightings in Kruger. The last entry, in Peter’s bold hand, denoted his sister’s first name and Capetown number. I couldn’t bring myself to call her just yet. It would needlessly worry her. Surely, surely, they would find him.
I tossed most of the night, only drifting into a restless drowse at 4:00 a.m. It was a night far more hideous and lonely than any spent lost in the bush.
The American Embassy chastised me royally. Somebody from up north flew me down to Pretoria the following afternoon and unfortunately, it was now my deserved punishment to sit restlessly in front of an overweight man sporting a hideous orange-and–purple-speckled tie who supposedly represented the United States of America.
“I think,” Mr. Dobbs said, “that you have been rather foolhardy to travel alone in South Africa as a single young woman.”
His second chin with its unceasing wobble distracted me from his fatherly words. I tried to focus.
“I wasn’t aware,” I said quietly, “of a travel advisory issued for single young women visiting Africa.”
He scowled. “No, though
any
reputable travel agent would have suggested that you join a tour instead of traveling unescorted.”
“I was not
unescorted
. I was traveling with one of Southern Africa’s best rangers.”
“Yes. It was indeed fortuitous that Mr. Leigh located you after that violent hijacking. But to rent a jeep by yourself, unaccompanied… what could your travel agent have been thinking? There are all sorts of wonderful cruises, tours,
Club Meds
in Mauritius to be had. It was simply foolhardy! You’re lucky to be alive. Thank God I’m here to sort all this mess out. It’s regrettable about the deceased. The military here are more inclined to shoot first and ask questions later. You’ll be happy to know, however, that there’ll be no complications with the South African government regarding your involvement to worry about.”
Thoroughly chastised, I fidgeted as my bloated compatriot wrote furiously, his government-issued pen flying over the bureaucratically long paper. Form UTW (only used for unaccompanied truant women) proved a monumental task, and he bit his lip. Mr. Dobb’s balding head, starched white shirt, and pained expression made him a perfect candidate for a poignant remake of an outdated fifties sitcom. His stance and slightly vacant expression indicated how annoying the embassy employee really thought my dilemma was.
“When will I receive my duplicate passport?” I asked.
Mr. Dobbs clucked sympathetically under his tongue.
“You know, after 9/11 we have had to send all our passports to the National Passport Center back in the States to be reissued. Of course we will place an
Urgent
tag on yours, but it will still take some time.”
“And Peter… Mr. Leigh… has his… his body been recovered?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Phillips. There’s been no word. As far as I know, SAPS is still searching for his remains.”
A thin Asian man had taken some hideous passport photos immediately after I’d filled out all the new forms, and whisked everything away without fanfare.
“And how will you be paying for this?” Mr. Dobbs asked, his pen poised as he leaned forward, double chin wobbling.
“My wallet, passport, camera, and jeep have been stolen. Consequently I have no money. How would
you
suggest I pay?”
He didn’t like my retort and his pale blue eyes narrowed. “You don’t remember your Visa card number and expiration date?”
“Ah… not off the top of my head.”
Mr. Dobbs seemed clearly affronted. I guess all travelers to South Africa are supposed to memorize the 800-number to their Visa card company in case they get hijacked. I’d put that on my to-do list right after I touched down on US soil again.
“I’ll arrange for the embassy to advance you some emergency cash then. René in accounts will help you with your Visa card. I’m afraid you’ll have to remain in Pretoria until your duplicate passport is available and your plane ticket can be changed.”
“How long will that take?” I asked.
“A week, ten days, who knows? Call us every day and we’ll update you on the progress. Have a good day.” I was dismissed. Stiffly I rose and pushed back my chair.
You’ve got to love bureaucracy! When all else fails, it continues to survive, just like the cockroach. However, I must admit that by the end of the day I did have some money, a place to stay, and the promise from a bored René that my Visa card would be DHL’d within the next couple days. I hid in my dark hotel room while I recuperated, grieved and checked the unblinking room phone for messages every ten minutes. I watched reruns of
Oprah
on satellite TV while sipping orange juice and eating scones. I couldn’t stomach anything else. After two shows, I have to admit that Oprah did more to revive in me the fact that I was an American than anything else.
My sorrow didn’t diminish. I’d read about the five stages of grief, but seemed stuck somewhere between anguish and denial. The next day I phoned Peter’s sister, no longer able to put off the inevitable, but only got a tinny recording of a cheerful voice indicating she was away on business and would get back to the caller. I never heard from her, though I phoned several times each day. On the fifth day, I resolutely spelled out my home address and phone number in Florida, praying Elizabeth would eventually call.
My passport arrived six days after filling out the application. Clearly a world record! My ticket changed and reissued, I soon sat numbly in business class, contemplating first how to deal with my family and second, how to continue life without Peter. My worries were entirely founded as I spent the next several days striving in vain to explain my experiences and perceptions to those around me. The numbness of my mundane routine, even with a new job, proved the most comforting thing to me, since I received nothing but criticism from my family during those first dark days after my return. When the announcement arrived less than one week after my return that Josh intended to marry his teenaged girlfriend, I wasn’t even fazed.
My friends and family simply shook their more knowledgeable heads, comfortable in the assumption that something like
this
could never happen to them, since they weren’t foolhardy sorts like me. My cousin proved particularly irksome. In his nasal tones, he insinuated that while I had been close to losing my marbles before embarking upon my adventures, now, after the hijacking and death of Peter, I had clearly lost them. I ignored him—remaining silent through his nonstop lectures. Ken found my mute gaze intolerable, desiring me to either agree with him or at least counter, so he could put me down.
“You’re different,” he accused after dropping by that second Saturday afternoon after I’d returned. Ken and my mother had taken to
popping
in
to check on what I later overheard my mother term “the mental invalid.”
“Is that bad or good?” I asked indifferently. “Since you couldn’t stand me before, what’s the big deal?”
“Couldn’t stand you? What ridiculous nonsense. You’re my cousin and I love you. Somebody has to. But I have to admit you’re a goddamned mess, Mandy. While the death of your Zimbabwean friend was “unfortunate,” you’re probably better off. Long-distance relationships never work.”
“Whatever.”
“That’s your only response—whatever?”
“Yup. You didn’t know Peter, so don’t you dare comment on him. He was my soul mate and my beloved, and because of my stupidity, I’ve lost him, and consequently, any hope at future happiness.”
My cousin hesitated. “No word from his sister or the South African authorities?”
“No,” I swallowed, barely able to hold back my tears. “Nor the police, who promised to phone me if they discovered anything. I think… I believe his body was never recovered. The Limpopo River is full of crocodiles.”
Ken barged ahead. “You didn’t know the last name of his sister?”
“Not her married name. Peter never relayed the name of her new husband, either. We didn’t talk that much about his family. ”
Ken toyed with a coaster before reaching into his pocket to remove a gold-embossed card. “You know, I have this friend I attended undergraduate school with. Jeff moved back to Orlando just six months ago. Maybe he could give you a call.”
It took a moment for the identity of his friend to sink in. “Jeff, the defense lawyer?” I really hadn’t expected that my nerdy cousin would try to match me up. I waved the proffered card away. “I’m not interested right now. Please. Could you close the door on your way out?”
A peculiar expression flitted over my cousin’s face. His tone actually sounded contrite. “I’m truly sorry about all that happened, Mandy. You know, Josh was a swine to cheat on you. Hey, I’ll phone in a couple days, okay?”
Frankly, I wouldn’t care if he ever phoned.
Mom stopped by the following weekend as I scanned an article about the upcoming elections in Zimbabwe.
“Why do you keep reading that boring stuff?” she asked, dropping her handbag onto my new chintz couch. I’d sold the adulterous other one.
“Just want to keep informed,” I answered mildly as she followed me into the kitchen. Since she was here, I might as well cook a meal. My mother rambled on about the brilliance of a new TV series she was watching, her fantastic bridge club, and the retired and
very
interesting single brain surgeon who’d moved down the block from her.
As I cut my roast chicken into bite-sized pieces, she shocked me.
“I have a present for you, Amanda. Actually, it’s from both Ken and me.”
“A present? It’s not my birthday.”
“I, um. Well, you know Jeff, Ken’s friend?”