Authors: Loren Lockner
A family of Japanese tourists pushed by me, oblivious to my mounting anger.
“And you just
happened
to land in the very same camp, in the very same museum in the whole of Kruger Park, as me?”
“Strange, isn’t it?” He nonchalantly turned away from my angry eyes and pointed at the sign below the huge tusks. “This is Shawu—an amazing tusker. It was a real shame when he died. You know that elephants have six sets of teeth and after they wear down the last one, they slowly starve to death.”
“You need to get away from me,” I ground out between clenched teeth.
“Ach, shame. Look Mandy, I’m sorry about last night. My sister swears I have an uncanny knack of saying just the wrong thing at the wrong time. My sincere apologies. I planned on telling you I was flying straight up to Letaba. Last night I was truly delighted to learn you were headed to the same camp as me. Please, please forgive my rudeness.”
But I had already turned away, heading for the glass doors of the small museum. Peter Leigh caught up with me and gently took my arm to stop me exiting the small museum. His voice shook with emotion. “Alright, Mandy, you have to listen to me. I have a confession to make. I’m sure this is going to come as a bit of a shock to you, but you see, I’m actually your hired guide.”
Flabbergasted, I stared blankly at him before sputtering, “Is that supposed to be some sort of pick-up line?”
“No, it’s the God’s honest truth.” Peter fished inside his back pocket and handed me a creased paper. The document was an order form from Azure Travel.
I scanned the paper in disbelief. “The travel agency hired you? My agency from Orlando, Florida?
“Yes, via a Ms. Raymond, actually. It seems that the price she quoted you was guide-inclusive. It’s clear she neglected to tell you that fact. I figured that out when you didn’t recognize my name when I introduced myself to you last night at the hotel. You’re the client I’m supposed to meet tomorrow.”
“I remember very well my conversation with Ms. Raymond about the trip,” I said indignantly, “and I can guarantee she mentioned nothing about my tour being ‘guide inclusive.’”
Peter Leigh shrugged. “Then I guess you’re just lucky she caught the mistake in time. Look, Mandy, the bottom line is that Kruger isn’t a great place to be traveling alone. The park is the size of your state of Massachusetts and there are tons of twisty dirt roads, with hours between camps and toilet facilities. Have you thought about what you’d do if you got a flat, ran out of petro, or were charged by one of these big fellas here? There are dangers lurking in a wild place like this that most city folk can’t fathom. It’s better to have a guide if you’re on your own. Particularly a pretty woman like you. Trust me.”
His final words caught me off guard and I experienced that insistent telltale blush, exposing my deep-seated insecurities again. Dumbfounded, I was literally rendered speechless.
He continued, sensing my acute embarrassment. “I recognize that you really want to travel alone, but I’d feel much more at ease about it all if you’d just allow me to accompany you on your drive tomorrow. I’m used to driving a jeep, which I know was part of your tour package, and my assuming the wheel would enable you to enjoy the splendors of the park. I’ve been doing tours for nearly ten years and I’ll not only give you insights on the flora and fauna inhabiting Kruger, but might even enable you to the catch the Big Five.”
“The Big Five?” The question was out of my mouth before I could stop myself.
“Those are the big animals considered most dangerous for hunters. They’re the lion, leopard, elephant, rhino, and Cape buffalo. Most visitors to the park pray they will run across a couple of them, though frankly, there are others creatures vastly more interesting.”
I fidgeted as he spoke. The insulted part of me longed to tell the arrogant Zimbabwean to get lost, but the other, the more curious and vulnerable part, hankered to learn more about this incredible wilderness. And best yet, he would drive. What propelled me to agree, to this day I’ll never fathom.
“The gate opens at 6:00 a.m.,” I said sharply. “I’ll meet you at the parking lot outside of the reception area near my jeep. You have one day to prove to me that you aren’t wasting my precious holiday, Mr. Leigh.”
“I’ll be there.” His words drifted after my rapidly departing figure. I couldn’t flee fast enough.
One of the beauties of Letaba, I later discovered that chilly evening, were the benches overlooking the river. It was there in the fading light of the cooling evening that I glimpsed my first elephant. The massive herbivore sauntered down the sloping bank and drank gustily from the slow-flowing river. I watched the big fellow for over twenty minutes as the tusker took his own sweet time to drink, forage, and then drink again. By the time he lumbered back up the embankment, his huge footsteps deeply indenting the sand, the sun had finally disappeared. The sky slowly filled with an array of shining stars so clear and unblemished, it took my breath away.
I remained profoundly disturbed by the events of that afternoon. Ever since my encounter with Peter Leigh in the museum, I’d racked my brains about all my conversations with Azure Travel’s agent. Then it hit me. Ms. Raymond had been witness to Josh’s and my less-than-dignified encounter regarding our breakup. She had then hurriedly set me up on a trip to a country whose crime rate was notorious. It was likely Ms. Raymond had added on the services of a guide in belated penitence. Frankly, it didn’t matter why Peter Leigh had intruded upon my trip; what mattered was how I handled it as the new, independent Mandy. Would my quest to become a more competent woman suffer from having a private tour guide? I finally concluded that giving Peter Leigh one day to prove himself a reliable guide might be the right course. Somewhat soothed by my choice, I contemplated dinner.
I ventured late that night into the restaurant and enjoyed a casserole of kudu stew, tasty bright orange butternut, and a delicious malva pudding for dessert. I tried an unfamiliar drink called Appletizer and found it refreshing and tasty as I unashamedly eavesdropped on the conversation of some loud and boisterous Australians who’d had a very productive day. In an accent impossible to misplace, they boasted of lucky and unexpected sightings. I listened intently, memorizing their references to locations in hopes that those selfsame animals would present themselves to me over the next few days.
“That cheetah,” said a balding, muscular man who vaguely reminded me of Steve Irwin, “didn’t have a scrap of fear!”
His mate, lanky and sandy-haired with a bristly three-day growth of beard, responded enthusiastically. “Did you see how he leaped right up onto the road marker, the sun directly behind him? It was a spectacular shot—one in a million.”
“I just hope you focused the camera, Jeff,” laughed a pixie-haired woman who might have been his girlfriend or wife. Tanned and slim, she wore shorts even at dinner.
“You bet I did,” he protested toothily. “And that white rhino and her baby, I pray you got a good shot of her suckling at her mum.”
“Of course, of course,” chortled the first man. “I must say that I’m thoroughly chuffed. That Tsendze loop has proven a fine one.”
Another woman, blonde and stout, exhibited a no-nonsense attitude in regards to her companions that designated her as the trip organizer. “Tomorrow will be a long day, Billy,” she announced. “We must rise at the crack of dawn if we’re going to make it to Punda Maria.”
“Christ!” grumbled the first man. “It’s a bloody shame we couldn’t book a closer camp. We’ll have to kill ourselves driving that far north in one day.”
“It’ll be worth it,” stated the organizer firmly. “We’ll see Crooks’ Corner. And I plan to linger around until we rustle ourselves up a good posse of nyala. Jeff says he needs a full male head for his buck page. We were lucky to snap those roan and sable antelope. With the nyala, we’ll have everything he asked for.”
“Don’t worry, Tracy. We’ve got three days there and I promise you’ll have two hundred shots of nyala. They’re supposed to be thick as impala near Pafuri.”
I repeated the unfamiliar names under my breath. I’d have to check my map first thing back in the rondavel. The photographic team blustered and boasted loudly, enthusiastically drinking their way through the entire meal. Though alone at my solitary table, I had ample entertainment and didn’t for one second allow myself to feel lonely, though more than once I wondered what my new guide Peter Leigh was up to.
Later, sitting Indian-style upon my single bed, the night imbuing the camp with wild and exotic sounds, I studied the map and planned my next day’s route. I was booked for these first three nights in Letaba, a further two in Mopani, and a final pair in Shingwedzi which, according to the map, was situated not far from Zimbabwe. If I planned my trip correctly, I could make it as far north as Punda Maria during my last days in the park and visit the exotic Crooks’ Corner I’d heard about at dinner. A guide book examination revealed how one could view three countries at once in the small triangulated area separating their borders.
Just before bed, I perused the two animal identification books I’d purchased, seeking to familiarize myself with the more common animals. I didn’t wish to appear a complete idiot in front of Peter Leigh. With a sense of glee, I discovered the antelope my Australian dinner entertainment had spoken about. The beautiful nyala was notable because of its extremely hairy body balanced on pale, slender legs. The fascinating buck, dominated by wide white stripes and a strange bar of black across his nose, seemed beautiful beyond belief. His antlers, though not as spectacular as the magnificent kudu, made me as excited as those Australians to snap a shot.
A ruckus outside my rondavel brought me off the single bed and I cautiously opened the door. A shout from near the benches where I had sat earlier coaxed me from the room. A small, tight cluster of people hovered near the bench I’d vacated that very evening.
“Get back! Get back!” protested a burly black man clad in a green ranger’s uniform.
I, of course, hurried forward, curiosity propelling me toward the shifting crowd. Fairly obedient, the group backed off a distance of two to three meters, watching the ranger bark into his walkie-talkie as he stood guard beside an upside-down bin. Suddenly Peter Leigh came at a run, clutching a large net and a snake stick. The first ranger gestured the crowd to back away and lifted the trash can whereupon a huge snake, curled and defensive, hissed and lunged. Peter Leigh jumped back and shoved the curved pole hard upon the angry snake’s head. I gasped. No snake lover, this was the stuff of my worst nightmares.
“Nothing to worry about,” said the boyish Peter Leigh calmly to the gathering crowd of onlookers. “It’s just a baby, and a fine specimen at that.”
A baby? The oversized thing was a mass of writhing scales.
“What is it?” I gasped as a plump Afrikaner lady near me backed away, obviously as nervous as I.
“Just a rock python,” answered my guide, glancing up at me with a reassuring smile.
Apparently the fact that this constrictor might just as easily have slithered into my rondavel as the trash bin never occurred to anyone. I tensed as the two men tussled with the beast. All in all, the whole matter was handled quite professionally and quickly. The African ranger distracted the snake with his hands and stick while Peter Leigh deftly captured and bagged the infant. Though dubbed a baby, the two grown men were hard-pressed to carry the heavy eight-foot reptile away.
“It must have crawled up the embankment,” observed a stout European tourist. “Dese electric fences can’t keep ‘em out.”
The entire camp was encircled by a comforting length of electric fencing, designed to zap any unwanted wild visitor in a not-so-gentle reminder to stay on their side of the fence. Of course, any self-respecting snake could burrow or slither underneath the gaps where soil met fence. I gulped and backed away from the noisy proceedings. I hated snakes as much as any die-hard Indiana Jones fan. Ever since a nasty encounter with a curious cottonmouth that had found its way into my grandmother’s swimming pool outside the Florida everglades, my love of swimming has been stifled somewhat. Still, the quiet confidence and expertise in which Peter Leigh had handled that snake comforted me immensely. Maybe having an experienced guide was prudent after all.
Upon returning to my room, I searched the entire length and breadth of that tiny space, paranoid beyond reason that the baby constrictor’s sister may have slithered her way into the circular room. I didn’t sleep well that night and it was Peter’s Leigh’s lean, competent face that soothed me into sleep.
Chapter 7
The next morning, after loading up with bread, cheese,
and fruit, as well as several liters of cold water, I trotted to where I’d parked the safari-green jeep under a shady tree to wait for Peter Leigh. Shrieking, I leaped back. A huge lizard, at least half a foot long, sat brooding upon the peeling tree trunk. Plump and covered in spiny scales, its blunt head and upper body glowed eerily aquamarine as he moodily observed me. Grabbing my camera, I moved closer. The reptile hissed, revealing a bright orange lining inside its mouth. I snapped the shot before darting back, afraid the temperamental reptile might launch itself from its perch and attack me with needle-sharp teeth.
I heard a male chuckle behind me. “He’s a lot of show, that ‘un.” A stout Afrikaner in very tight beige shorts sagging below a rotund beer belly stroked his bushy mustache and chewed thoughtfully on a toothpick. “You got a good shot?”
“Yes… um… what is it?”
“Blue-headed tree agama. Likes to hang out in the camp and frighten the ladies. Actually has a nasty bite if you get too close. Lekker color, hey?”
I remembered the guide book’s use of the word and smiled to show I understood. My new friend grinned, one front tooth protruding over the other. “Another neat lizard found around here is the rainbow rock skink. Got a dandy blue-striped tail. Not as scary as this one though. You here alone?” he asked nonchalantly.
I tensed. “No,” I said firmly. “I have a guide. You?”
“Just traveling with some mates. Keep an eye out for pesky reptiles then.” He gazed past me and added quickly, “A good day to you.”
As he sauntered off, Peter chuckled behind me.
“Amazing specimens, those
lizards
. I’d watch out for their nasty bite.”
“You’re here on time, I see.”
“I’m always punctual, milady. You sleep well?”
I starred up into his handsome, tanned face. He wore his brimmed hat and khakis, and held a fairly good-sized wicker basket in one hand and a rifle in the other. I wasn’t sure I found the rifle comforting.
“I did find the snake a bit disturbing,” I said. I had to check inside my rondavel to make sure a relative wasn’t lurking inside.”
“Wise decision. My brother-in-law always checks his shoes each time before donning them after he found a baby scorpion in one a few years back. You can’t be too prepared.” He lifted the rifle reassuringly. “You ready?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s get out there and see what this lovely day has in store for us.”
Peter preceded me to the dusky-green, six-passenger 4x4 and extended his hand for the rental key. “I hope you have a pullover?” he asked while opening the rear door and placing his rifle and gear inside.
“A sweatshirt? Yes, I do,” I said. “Why? The weather is delightful.”
“I want to remove the top, so if we have a sighting you can stand up and photograph whatever we find. The downside is it can get a bit chilly, particularly in the morning being winter. You okay with that?”
“Yes,” I answered and opened the heavy right-hand door. I’d found that yesterday, despite its sturdiness, the game vehicle was amazingly comfortable. With plenty of leg room, the small compartment to my left was just perfect for my new camera and cold water.
“Then let’s get this show on the road,” said Peter, and with a roar and a jerk, we were off.
That morning we ventured off the paved roads, meandering east to follow the Letaba River. The terrain outside of Letaba camp consisted of low-rolling hills, parched dry; its resident trees were twisted and ghostly-looking, since the rains had not yet come. Peter drove parallel to the wide river for a long time, observing more of the tasty impala and stopping once to allow me to snap a shot of a group of five young males whose lovely horns dipped gracefully as they idly chewed on grass, unperturbed by my photo mania. Two black-and-buff striped zebras browsed in the distance, and a large, dark object off to my right just
had
to be an elephant. A really close shot of the pachyderm had, for now, eluded me, but I kept my camera cradled in my lap in high hopes.
The knobby hills leveled out into open, grassy plains dominated by the ever-present thorn trees. Peter parked the 4 x 4 after thirty minutes and gazed into the dry brush, using his binoculars.
“There,” he pointed, handing me the glasses. “Wildebeest, but unfortunately we’re not close enough for a good shot.” I squinted through the strong glasses at the small herd. Though not the best shot, I took one anyway, pretending not to notice Peter’s small smile.
“Do you know much about the history of the Park?” asked Peter, starting the jeep again.
“Not much. I only read the little blurb inside the map I purchased.”
“The place is huge. It’s almos
t
20,000 square kilometers or about 7,500 square miles. It has many different biomes and more game is concentrated in the South, though personally I prefer the north because of its more unique game and baobab trees. It became the Kruger National Park in 1926 after having been a preserve called Sabi. There’s a private game park adjacent to this one called the Sabi Sands. Nice place, if you have a ton of money.”
“It can’t be nicer than this,” I stated. “It’s all so lovely.”
The bush dominated the land like I’d always imagined Africa; wild and seemingly inhospitable, every species but man adapting to the harshness of the dry landscape.
An evil-eyed bird settled in the road before us and plucked at a large pile of droppings. Peter slowed the jeep and I rose through the roof opening to obtain a better view. The size of the dung pile was so massive that even I recognized it as belonging to an elephant. Heart quickening, my head jerked nervously side to side as I searched the dense brush for the large herbivore. Finally, convinced no elephant lurked nearby, I turned my sights back to the bird. His hooked banana-colored beak proved quite effective as he burrowed through the poo, his yellow eyes constantly alert.
“That fellow is the Yellow Hornbill. He has a loud, irritable cry, black-and-white plumage, and a long tail. The elephant dung is a few hours old and becoming dry, which means she’s long gone, I’m afraid. It’s when the dung is still smoking that you know a herd is near.” Peter eased the jeep closer to the large pile of droppings and with an indignant squawk, the bird flew up and alighted in a nearby thorn tree.
I remained standing, protruding up through the roof, and just listened. Under the blue bowl of cloudless sky, the quiet of the bush was broken only by the distant cooing of some kind of dove. I stared at a black-and-white bird wagging its tail as it hopped through the shrub.
“That’s an African pied wagtail,” drifted up from Peter. “You like birds?”
“I love ‘em,” I replied. “So small and perfect. My grandfather was a birdwatcher and belonged to a walking club. He ventured out every Saturday on a hike to take photos of all the amazing birds of Florida. I accompanied him a few times before he got sick.”
“Too many people ignore the lesser creatures. I’m pleased that someone else besides me enjoys them.”
I glanced down at Peter. He leaned against his door, peering up at me, warmth seeping from his brown eyes. This time I didn’t blush or turn away. Suddenly I realized that if I glimpsed nothing more during the duration of my trip than that little African pied wagtail hopping near our vehicle, it would be enough for me. I sank back down beside him, my breath catching as a slow smile suffused his handsome, tanned features. In mounting confusion, I made a pretense of scanning the bush again.
He idly changed gears and drove leisurely, relating facts about the park to me. “It used to be mostly accessible by train in the early ‘20s, but the government started building roads in the 1920s and ‘30s so the public could enjoy the park. Have you ever read
Jock of the Bushveld?
“No,” I answered.
“Pick up a copy of the classic novel in the store here at Letaba. It will give you great insights into the times before the park, when all was wild and untamed. Look there at nine o’clock,” he added quietly.
A young coyote-like creature trotted by the road. Peter swung over to the side and I popped back up through the roof. “Can you get him in focus?” he asked.
I managed several shots before the lone dog dashed into the thick brush. “What was it?”
“A black-backed jackal. Lots of those fellas about here. They feed on rodents and hares, but also the leftover carrion after the bigger creatures have had their fill. And just there…”
His voice sounded casual enough, but I could discern a trace of excitement. The huge rhino lifted his massive head and stared straight at us, as if daring me to snap a photo. I focused and shot once, twice.
“There, look at the side of the road—the rutted mud and dug-out area,” whispered Peter. “That’s a rhino midden. The rhino sniffs the dung and adds to the pile. It’s like a message station. All rhinos in the vicinity use it as a public toilet, so to speak, and learn who’s wandering the neighborhood. It’s a large one… that means there’s quite a few white rhino about.”
I adjusted the telephoto lens of the Nikon before snapping twenty more shots. The rhino just kept chewing, its small eyes examining us with as much interest as we did it.
“The white rhino isn’t really white at all,” Peter explained softly. “His Afrikaans name is actually derived from the wide lip he uses in grazing. The black rhino forages on brush and shrubs and therefore is hook-mouthed and much smaller in size. It’s also much more aggressive. Unfortunately, both species are highly endangered.”
The rhino, likely tired of all my photographic nonsense, trotted daintily back into the thick brush. I flopped back down into my seat and sighed blissfully.
“What a heavenly day. I just can’t understand how anyone could kill those beautiful animals,” I stated.
“They’re heavily poached for their horns. The Asian market pays very well for their ‘medicinal’ properties. They’re suspected to be a strong aphrodisiac. I imagine you’re getting hungry. I know a great rest stop a few kilometers away where we can lunch.”
The pristine rest stop came equipped with modern bathrooms tucked under shady marula trees. At a cluster of picnic benches I offered up my cheese and fruit while Peter pulled out the large picnic basket. He spread out a red-checkered tablecloth over the roughly hewn table. Black iridescent starlings hopped close by, hoping for spare crumbs from our delicious chicken salad sandwiches and hardboiled eggs. Chattering a few trees away, a trio of vervet monkeys twitched and sprang from limb to limb.
“If those infernal monkeys get too close, just give ‘em a whack,” said Peter, his eyes scanning the horizon. “I had one grab a potato out of my hand right before it was set to encounter the frying pan a few months back, while I led a walking trek in Chobe. Devious little devils they are.”
“You love all this don’t you?” I asked taking a bite of my now-shelled egg.
“I really can’t imagine doing anything else. Everything is so connected here, so alive and vibrant. If a visitor is patient, not like some of our tourists, they can witness truly amazing sights.”
“I’m patient,” I stated quietly.
“I sense that.” Peter stared a long while into my hazel eyes while a smile tugged at his deep laugh lines.
“Educate me about the Everglades,” he demanded, and so there, in the deep shade of the trees, listening to the unceasing chatter of the ever-present starlings, I spoke about the massive wetlands of Florida, the mangrove swamps, gliding alligators and white cranes. He listened intently, as if I were some sort of expert about my state’s national treasure.
“I’d like to explore those swamps someday,’ he said finally, refusing my help in cleaning up our debris. “I’d love to compare them to the Okavango Delta.”
I left him to his task, his sure hands removing every scrap of our lunch, and wandered the fenced confines of the small rest stop. As I watched a cluster of tiny yellow birds dip and swoop around a red-flowered bush, contentment such as I’d never known before stole into my very soul. I glanced back at the trim man busy in his mundane tasks and felt a rush of desire so powerful it nearly took my breath away. Patience, Peter had suggested, so patient I would remain.
We arrived back at Letaba just as the gates closed at 5:30. Peter had paused obediently every time I’d asked to take several more photographs of male impala, and I snapped an especially fine one of a young buck with his head turned toward us, the sun sinking behind him. After parking the jeep, Peter escorted me through the lush camp, pausing as I read each and every one of the markers denoting the various plant species found inside the electric fence. Under his tutelage, I gratifyingly identified more than forty different plants including the lala palm, bushwillow, and umbrella acacia, his quiet manner bolstering my knowledge and confidence. We tarried upon one of the wooden benches overlooking the Letaba River while I fantasized aloud about changing my career and working as a game warden in a place such as this.
I sneaked a glance at Peter. He sat idly gazing over the river, where some sort of antelope had edged down for an evening drink. I suddenly wished I was more like him, so quietly confident and in harmony with his surroundings.