Authors: Judith Stephan
“Hotel? You mean the game lodge. It’s about a three hours’ drive from here… in the heart of the African bush,” he added with a mystical flourish.
“Three hours! Are you mad?” Shilo exclaimed. “Three hours in this heat in this … in this contraption?”
Dorianne once again gave her a withering look. Stratt had already decided that the redhead was a complete irritation. Her haughty attitude was beginning to get to him.
“Don’t worry, Madame,” he said sarcastically, “I’ll leave the windows open.”
He did just that. The wind that swept through the vehicle would keep the women cool and the rushing noise it made would certainly assist in drowning out their complaints. The aunt seemed sweet enough. The dark-haired one, who looked a little overweight, was attractive and had hardly uttered a word since their arrival, except for a few covert remarks about her sister’s attitude. She had looked a little embarrassed at her sister’s comments. The redhead, on the other hand, was stunning: She could not be older than nineteen or twenty at the most, and looked a little like a character Meryl Streep had played in an old movie, “The French Lieutenant’s Woman”. Sort of a mystical, ethereal beauty. Pale skin, a light sprinkling of freckles, and cascades of red-gold angel hair. But she was a real snob, a complete bitch – full of herself, obviously a spoilt rich kid with an ego to boot. Stratt’s father had said they were daughters of some relative of the Spanish royal family who had married a daughter of an English Viscount and were distantly related to British Royalty too. They apparently attended the same functions as William and Catherine did, hung around with other young royals and if he remembered correctly, one of these sisters had been photographed in a slow dance with one of the royal cousins at a well-known London discotheque and it was splashed all over the tabloids for a while.
“Don’t you think he’s a dish?” mouthed Michaela above the rush of captured wind.
Shilo gave her a disapproving look, and raised her eyes to the grubby upholstery on the roof of the vehicle, to show her disdain.
Stratt glanced in the rearview mirror several times and delighted in the fact that everyone’s formerly coiffed and lacquered hair was blowing vigorously around their heads. He marveled at the halo of Shilo’s auburn hair as it caught the sunlight and whipped around into her eyes and mouth as the Land Rover sped along the highway towards their destination.
Shilo looked out at the scenes of Africa as they flashed by. Strange, unpronounceable names of places like Benoni, Olifantsfontein and Pretoria (she had heard of that name somewhere before) lurked on giant green and white signboards. The landscape was greener than she had imagined and so flat! Dust devils rose up in the fields, lifting dried vegetation, tumbleweed and litter into the air, and chased each other across the road, which converged in a nebulous haze on the horizon, before blowing themselves out. Lonely windmills rotated slowly as they stood their vigil over cast iron water tanks. Fields of wheat, lucerne and sunflowers, cows and sheep and nothingness flashed past. Small bridges over shallow and often dried up rivers, bearing alien, ethnic names bore witness to much less rain than Europe bragged. And then there were the miles and miles of tawny
veld¹
dotted with angular trees, rocks and anthills that slid past and out of sight.
After an hour she leaned forward and tapped her contrary chauffeur on his shoulder.
“Close the window!” She snapped, “We’re all in rather a draught back here.”
“There’s no air conditioning, I’m afraid, ladies … it’s broken,” he warned as he wound up the window.
Then they started to sweat in the hot interior. He could see them in the mirror, as their faint complexions reddened; as sweat beads, in a shimmer on their brows, turned into rivulets that left their hair plastered across their forehead. Dorianne soon handed out tissues, which they used to mop up the perspiration, and fanned herself with the Vogue magazine.
“I hope there’s a hospital near to where we’ll be staying,” whispered Michaela. “Imagine if I go into labour in the middle of the African bush hours away from the nearest civilised hospital.”
“Oh, are you expecting a baby?” interrupted Stratt, who had obviously been eavesdropping on their conversation. Michaela was about to utter a positive response when Shilo reacted:
“I really don’t see that that is any business of yours.”
“Shilo, now there’s no need to be so rude, dear,” Dorianne said, without much emotion.
“Who does he think he is, listening to our private conversations?” Shilo snapped through clenched teeth, blushing on top of the flush from the intrepid heat as she felt reprimanded in front of a lesser species
“Shilo!” Dorianne’s commanding tone resounded through the car.
“Honestly, Aunt Dorianne, what has it got to do with him?” Shilo insisted.
The reprimand then forced Shilo into a sulky silence, much to Stratt's relief. Soon they drove through a place called Middelburg. Stratt pulled into a gas station with a Quick Shop and bought a few Cokes. As he dished them to the sweltering ladies in the back of the vehicle, he said sarcastically: “Do you think you can slum it and drink out of a tin? They were out of straws.”
Shilo flashed him an angry glare and watched as he opened the tin and downed the contents in four greedy gulps. She watched the muscles in his throat move up and down as he swallowed the refreshing liquid with his head tipped back. In her circles men sipped their drinks slowly and noiselessly, yet, paradoxically, there was something paradoxically alluring about his boorish actions.
“If I had known you were going in to buy cold drinks, I’d have asked for a diet one,” Shilo mumbled, as she flipped up the cap reluctantly. She went to great trouble to remove a sanitizing cloth from her hand bag and wiped the top of the can carefully whilst sneaking Stratt annoyed glances.
“For goodness sake, Shilo,” mumbled Dorianne. “You are really being a little over the top.”
“Oh, it’s really a pleasure… no trouble at all,” muttered Stratt sardonically as he wiped his mouth, crushed the can in one hand, chucked it into a nearby garbage bin, climbed into the Land Rover and started the engine.
And then they were driving past orchards of fruit and quaint little farm stalls, and into more hilly country, lush and green, with plantations of pine and fir trees, blue gums and wattles, which flanked the highway up steep slopes. What amazed Shilo was the number of black people who were along the roads, in the fields, in the small towns they past. Women with babies strapped on their backs and bags or buckets on their heads; boys on rickety bicycles and playing with toys made from old cool drink tins and bits of wire; men walking far away from the nearest town, with a long stick in one hand. It was an alien world to her. There was just so much space!
“We’re in paper country now,” said Stratt to Dorianne once they were off the highway, as she seemed to be the only one who showed any overt interest in the ever-changing landscape. “Most of these plantations belong to the big paper companies.”
The Land Rover slowed somewhat as it negotiated a winding pass. More quaint towns flashed by, and Michaela fell asleep - weary from the flight, the long journey and her delicate condition. Her head lolled back on the seat, her mouth was slightly open. They really were quite pretty girls, thought Stratt to himself.
They climbed a rugged pass steadily and then they were suddenly off main roads and on some sort of plateau. The landscape was a little browner, a little drier than before. Then Shilo saw a rustic sign post bearing the name “Malabane Lodge”, with the skull and horns of a buck at one end. Underneath in smaller print, it read “Luxury Game Lodge. Private – No Entry!” The jaunty vehicle turned off the road, through the ranch-style gate and along a primitive double track flanked by umbrella trees, and occasionally thorn trees adorned with feathery yellow flowers. Shrieks of wild birds sounded through the now reopened windows. The narrow road was bumpy, dusty, but obviously maintained, and Michaela felt rather uncomfortable jogging up and down on the back seat. The ladies’ faces were flushed with the heat and glowing with perspiration, and Shilo, although in awe of the paradise that was unfolding before her, was irritable, hot and bothered. More than that, she was silently seething at their incorrigible diver.
They rounded a gentle corner on a rocky rise, and suddenly the ground dropped before them into a magnificent valley: It was a gigantic crater which stretched for miles. A green oasis in the brown veld. There were grasslands and forests, silver rivers that meandered lazily across this magnificent landscape and a shiny mirror of a lake, with a pink cloud of flamingoes at one end. The crater was flanked on three sides by steep inclines and cliffs, but the fourth side was open and led into some other vista of purple mountains, the tail end of the mighty Drakensberg. What prehistoric earth movement or volcano had caused this gigantic hole in the middle of this plateau? Or was it a giant meteorite that had smashed here eons ago? Shilo marveled at the beauty of this unfamiliar panorama.
“Here we are,” said Stratt proudly, “welcome to Africa at its finest!”
The road wound precariously downwards, and Shilo held her breath as they seemed to be driving far too close to the edge. It was a sheer drop of a few hundred feet into the wooded area below.
“Do you have to drive so close to the edge?” she inquired through clenched teeth, her knuckles white where she gripped the edge of the seat.
“Would you like to drive, my good lady?” Stratt replied in the same frantic tone tinged with sarcasm, “I think I’m out of control here!”
Shilo remained silent.
“I can see you two are going to get along famously,” laughed Dorianne.
“Aren’t they just!” Michaela added.
Then the lodge came into sight. First the perimeter fencing (to keep out the wild animals, Stratt had joked) made of a lattice of gum poles bound together. In the large enclosure there was a fabulous main building built of natural stone and with a thatched roof set amongst a myriad banana palms, tree ferns, giant elephant’s ears and other lush and tropical greenery. A beautiful bougainvillea crept up the side, spilling its magenta blossoms over the huge wooden front door. Set a little way back from the building were several thatched
rondawels²
made out of the same rough stone. A crystal clear swimming pool, set amongst more greenery, reflected the azure sky. Sun beds lay in clusters around this inviting coolness and an open-air bar counter, also covered in thatch, was visible at the far side. There was a tennis court to the left, several water features and quiet, shady corners with ornate wrought iron benches. At a first glance, the place looked rather satisfactory to the foreign women.
On entering the vaulted foyer, Shilo smiled to herself. Africa was not as primitive as she had imagined. The lodge was luxurious to say the least. It was not the Ritz or the Hilton, but had a décor suitable for an African theme. The floors were cool, varnished stone slabs with large hand woven rugs thrown across it. The furniture was rattan and the walls were adorned with hunting trophies and ethnic masks. There was no ceiling, one just saw heavy beams supporting the thatch, and a huge wicker fan spun from its suspension. All fabrics on the armchairs and couches, and the drapes were an animal print. Huge carved giraffes and wooden hippos and other crafts stood in the corners and other strategic points. Large brass buckets contained arrangements of various dried grasses and twigs, and a hefty basket containing ostrich eggs stood on the reception counter.
An elderly man, quite handsome for his age, with steel grey hair and an equally superb tan met them with exuberance as they entered the foyer.
“I’m Philip Ogilvy. You must be the Deluccis! Welcome!”
Shilo recognised the name from her mother’s brief pre-flight exposé:
“I met him at
Oxford years ago,” she had said, “they are very wealthy. Part of the family that owns Anglo-Africa Gold. The game lodge is a hobby. It is only to attract the rich and famous from overseas and give them a taste of Africa. He lost his wife to cancer several years ago, so he runs the place alone.”
“I see you met Stratt,” Philip said, indicating to the tall frame of their contrary chauffeur who was disappearing through an archway to the dining room.
“To say the least,” Shilo muttered under her breath.