I woke some hours after midnight.
The old boy of the Chamafumbu pride was roaring.
Perhaps it was the eerie light of a full moon which made him want to fill its monochrome clarity with his bellows. The drawn out rumbles of his moans had ruffled the evenness of my sleep..
Somewhere far away upstream on the opposite bank of the river one of the Mushingashi pride was also sounding off. Over there, two young short-mained males recently dethroned the old king.
Wrapped in the darkness of the night, and swaddled within the layers of my sleeping bag like a silkworm in the comfort of its cocoon, the rumbles kept me mentally wide-eyed. Instinctively I knew it best not to draw the attention of a big prowling cat at night. I would tarry until the roars receded a tad before relieving myself. . The rumblings were so close I could discern the intake of breath between the big boy’s bellows.
Here there is no fence between the roar of a lion and myself. It produces a visceral emotion which is evidence of how many countless thousands of years lions were an extant part of our ancestral reality. I challenge any one to not feel that tingle of fear when a pride of lions is on the hunt in the outside darkness. After sunset is when a lion is at its most aggressive and fearless. The unwary and nocturnally reckless amongst our forbearer’s were eaten.
Now, before dawn the birds had begun to rouse and the big Leadwood and Acacia trees began to take form. So too did the shapes of the shower and chitenge structures across the open space of the camping area. The full moon which had earlier been hazed over by the frills of fine stratus clouds was more revealed as it brushed the landscape with its silver light.
A Heuglin’s Robin who frequented the thickets behind my tent was the first to herald the pending day. After its tentative start, as if to clear its throat, its crescendo rose to climactic perfection. It was for me a sound as emblematic as that of the Fish Eagle. The beauty of its song symbolizes the denser more fecund parts of Africa, the warmer, wetter, more enticing parts, those parts laden with the fruits for my soul.
As the serenading of the robin increased in intensity the slightly less deafening amplitude of Chamafumbu’s vocalizations allowed me to overcome my reticence to rouse.
Soon I was sitting in the predawn dimness with bare legs extended towards the fire. Its rekindled embers were wedged in the V formed between the sandals as my feet hooked over each other. Taking time to sip my coffee, French-Pressed, very strong, sweetened with two spoons of sugar and mellowed with a dash of powdered milk, it was perfected with two rusk biscuits to dunk in it.
With elbows on the armrests of the camp chair, I held the mug high, cradled in both hands with the rim of the cup barely touching my lips.
I drank with quiet shallow sips, barely moving my wrists,. It would be a pity to disturb the small herd of Puku that had spent the night out in the openness of the dambo grass. A few of the doe’s which had scampered into the bush line as I had moved to sit next to the fire, were now cautiously venturing back to graze close by.
The wisps of steam rising from the cup made the outline of the antelope fade, then as the vapor leaned askance they reappeared with sharpened shapes. The steam was nudged by the imperceptible drift of the air. Its cool weight pressed it gradually between the trunks of the trees, from where it slowly slid across the grassland before gently spilling into the wide rut of the river.
It was early, and it was Sunday. Without guests at the lodge Sunday has a relaxed routine. Things start later.
I should head across to the lodge and share another cup of coffee with Morse the manager . He could give me an update on what it happened, if anything, while I was away. Or I could take the boat and head a few clicks upriver to meet with neighboring Alan at his hunting camp. I was curious if he was aware of anything unusual in his sector of our Lunga-Luswishi area. He could brief me on developments with our cooperative anti-poaching activities.
But that would only be after I had met scout team-lead Dimas to get a report on his follow up on the elephant poaching, and his missing team member. He had left a message that he would be back at the pontoon base sometime today.
Before that I should head across to download my messages from the lodge’s painfully slow satellite link. I could come back and read and check the email from the cyber elsewhere.
Or ignoring it all, I could experience the wonderful escape from the frenetic apostasy of modern progress. Why put in the effort? Was I really making any dent in the wounds of Africa. The world was getting jaded with the images of dead elephants and rhino’s with hacked off horns. They were ‘annoyingly’ getting in the way of mankind’s sense of spiritual entitlement. Made clear to me with the latest threatening note.
My tent was pitched on the edge of the altar of one of nature’s last cathedrals, the Kafue National Park. Here I felt I could commune with any of the conventional Gods of the Universe. I didn’t need to pay high fees to find the peace and harmony of soul on the couch of a psychologist, or in the austerity of soul spent in an ashram. But if the messages from the outside world’s religious shrines were to be believed, all of the world was given to us by some deity, so why should I interfere with some poacher stealing from the tithing bowl of nature’s vast church? Especially if they had ngangas on their side. Nobody really cared. National coffers didn’t allocate a big budget to preventing the killing of an elephant. It was not a high crime or misdemeanor.
As the dawn light filtered through the leaves my attention was drawn to the background hum of the thousands of bush bees gathering nectar from the composite flowers of the tree above my tent. With the pollen wiped from the legs of a bee onto a receptive stigma, the tiny petals of the wilted flowers sprinkled from their florets like confetti at a Greek Wedding. The hum I was hearing was one of nature’s beautiful porn shows, the myriad mating’s of flowers.
By mid-morning outside the tent it was hot, and hotter inside. I furled up all of the window flaps to let in the breeze flowing across the dambo as it also tickled the trees enough to make their leaves giggle softly in response.
By late afternoon Dimas had yet to appear. I procrastinated until late afternoon. Finally I had a shower and shave and got ready to go over and join Morse for a sundowner drink.
In the background came the rumble of distant thunder. As a precaution I unfurled and secured the window covers, in case it rained a tad before my return.
Walking the short distance between the camp area and the lodge spits of rain dimpled the sandy surface of the road.
Despite the growing ominousness of the far off thunder, I judged that a storm was not imminent. But then it was as if someone had drawn the curtains. Leaving my tent it was with the light of afternoon. Halfway down the road it was dusk! It was pronounced. I sensed that the clouds were coalescing oveerhead.
Suddenly, aloft, the skies were split by a flash so intense that it could only have escaped from a toolbox left behind by the creators of Genesis. The massive juddering strobe lit the darkness directly overhead, freezing the candelabra branches of the Euphorbia trees like Satans pitchfork on the retina of my eyes. The deafening clap of thunder which blew away those images, arrived only seconds later.
I was glad that my sandals had thick rubber sole’s with good lightning protection. But even this would be useless in a close strike. The statistics from the war in Angola showed that the fourth biggest killer was a toss-up between lightning strikes and crocodile attacks.
It is dangerous to shelter under big trees during a thunderstorm. I headed out away from the road which follows the tree line. From the center of the open dambo I looked over the trees and saw that the whole South east sky was possessed by a wall of hell. It was flooded with a mighty wave of angry purple clouds. They were seemingly suspended in motion, at the same time as they oozed danger. The light of the setting sun still lingered in the west. It highlighted wispy front-running clouds painted in shades of light lavender and dark mauve.
On the other side of the sky the purple wall roiled with sparkling bolts of hell rippling across its surface like the licks of a serpents tongue.
The rumbles of thunder even overwhelmed the swish of my feet through the thick grass of the dambo.
I made it to the Chitenge before significant rain arrived.
From its deck, which cantilevers out over the river bank, I had a great view of the show.
Like the roar of traffic from a highway, it came rushing at us from across the river.
The trees on the opposite bank danced and lashed about like possessed dervishes.
Then, with a pant and growl it arrived, the blasting, flapping, tumbling body of air. Trees everywhere bent and succumbed to the pillaging pump and thrust of the wind, thrashing their boughs, shuddering off leaves, resisting and succumbing. A crash came from the vehicle sheds… Something big had been pushed over.
The heavens gushed! Sheets of deluging rain lashed across the trees and under the thatched roof of the chitenge and splashed against the furniture.
One of the staff came running across from the kitchen. I helped him drag the big padded chairs further back under the roof and out of the rains reach.
It lashed down as the water poured from the roof and flooded across the lawn.
It went on, the rain and the wind, for half an hour, until with a sigh of submission Its force and fury was spent, replaced by the soothing brush of a warm drizzle.
The summer wet season had arrived, heralded with a statement of nature’s power, a big bruising African thunderstorm.
And there it was again, the surprising unexpectedness of Africa.
Because, from the gap in the fence, instead of Morse coming to join me for a belated sundowner, it was Precious who ran across the lawn through the softness of the drizzle.
Her wet clothes clung to her figure, showing her femininity, as well as indicating that she had come all the way from the staff quarters, not the kitchen.
With no air of supplication, she strode up to me.
Looking at me directly she took the fabric on both sides of her shirt between thumb and forefinger, tugging the wet cloth from its cling on her shape, lifting it off the fulness of her panting chest, leaving less excuse to let my eyes drift.
She understood the dimpled reason for my distracted attention. I caught a glimmer of that recognition in the haughty superiority in her eyes. She knew that I knew that she could control me whenever she so chose.
“Bwana, we need to speak again.”
With an edge to her voice she added, “The crocodile man was here last night. He spoke to some of the staff.”
“Can we meet tomorrow morning?” I replied, “Morse will be here in a few minutes.”
“No Bwana. I want to speak to you now when the others will not see us talking. I will come to your camp after you are finished here.”
She turned to walk away through the softly falling rain.
. I am not sure if my first reaction was a gasp of surprise, or a quiet whistle of wonder! The cut was conventional. The sleeveless frugality together with the austerity of its simple square neckline freed my eyes to drift down over the sumptuous pattern of the fabric. They could revel in the exhilaration of the slide over the fit on her figure, as it reached down to a modest termination. It was about color and pattern. Its subtle simplicity avoided prudery with a judicious exposure of the knees.
“Wow! That is stunning!”
The intricate intertwining of the underlying pattern of orange-gold and yellows, was overlain with dominating splashes of big nested windowed rectangles and eye-like circles. The starkness of these random sized dashes of black and white was ameliorated with an occasional substitution of turquoise gray. It was a dress which could have been picked directly from the wardrobe of Adele Bloch-Bauer, after she had modeled for Klimt .
The smooth ebony slenderness of one arm demurely crossed over her midriff as she cupped the elbow of the other, where it in turn dropped its stillness like a shadow at her side.
Maybe the visual shock of its colors appearing out of the darkness of the night would have been less impactful if this was Durban, and it was July, and the grand horse race, like that at Ascot, had not yet switched the attention from the fashionable to the racing horses. Instead the setting was my forlorn campsite in the middle of a huge solitude. Not exactly the expected venue for a fashion parade.
“Thank you, she murmured quietly, I wanted you to see it.”
Her words were accompanied by a mock curtsy, and a toss of her head which hinted at an air of indifference to any compliment.
“Where did you get it?”
“I made it.”
As my surprise ebbed I pulled another camp chair closer to the halo of the fire, whereupon I indicated for her to be seated.
“Where did you get the fabric?”
“In Lusaka. At Manda Hill.”
“Do you go there often?”
My question was rhetorical. The young women who worked at the lodge didn’t earn enough to afford frequent travel to the far away city.
“I don’t go enough!” There was bitterness in her voice.
I changed the subject. “So how is Eddie?”
Leaning back in the camp chair and stretching my legs I was a tad self-conscious of my attire.
Even though there had been an evening cooling in the aftermath of the downpour, it was still sufficiently comfortable to sit outside in the drabness of my khaki shirt and shorts, with my feet pointed at the camp fire.
I wasn’t sure if it was this contrast in our clothing, or something else. Whatever it was, like a pond ruffled by a breeze I was aware of my uneasiness.
She had been a butterfly, with its wings closed, blending with the bush. Now, in the blink of an eye, this Charaxes had opened her wings to reveal the brilliance of hidden colors, and a potential to fly faster and higher than I ever imagined.
I reminded myself that she had the stature of a menial servant at the lodge, and was significantly younger than I.
Admittedly I was not her boss. I didn’t really need to concern myself with maintaining a formal working distance.
But, now, wearing that dress, she was transformed. Into what exactly I was not sure. There was also the surprise of that subtle brazenness in how she had earlier ordered me to meet.
Maybe there was a crack in my armor. Maybe she had detected it when I let my gaze drift for too long over the shape under the wet cling of her uniform.
Gazing at the flicker of the fires flames, I had that almost forgotten six sense one learns to detect when walking into the killing ground of an ambush. There’s nothing upon which to place a validating finger. There is just the sense that someone else has the advantage. If it were you, this is where you would set a trap. To survive, sounds needed to be listened to more carefully, eyes opened wider, gazes cast quicker, footsteps more cautious. A sense to move away from the obvious and easy, instead to hug the denser and more impenetrable margins. In this case my senses told me that I was at the cusp of an inflection. Something was about to change. I needed to pay careful attention to where things were headed. But if this were a real ambush… Sheesh I thought to myself, what a killing ground, what a way to die! The sparkle of her figure was spectacularly augmented by her attire.
But that was a ridiculous and out of place premonition. My ego reasserted itself. Yes, she was young, but despite my age, the Bush life had kept me fit and trim, so why not assume the obvious. Why else would she come to my campsite three hours after sunset, when the rest of the lodge had shutdown. Why would she endure a distant walk in the darkness? Why else would she dress so sumptuously? There was the temptation to assume it was for me.
She continued to sit in silence, mesmerized by the flames.
The rhythmic, monotonous peep of a fruit bat came from the dense foliage of the water trees behind us.
Again I asked,
“How is Eddie, have you heard from him.”
Still staring at the flames, she slowly straightened and then hooked her extended legs together, one over the other, and folded her arms tightly across her chest.
“They say he will be fine.”
The gold of the dress was reflected in the warmth of the flames, and its yellow in the light from the propane lamp as it hissed quietly on the table beside us.
The moon had not yet risen and the lamps light also stretched the umbra of her shadow like a faint stain over the paleness of the sand.
I relaxed and enjoyed the strangeness of her company.
Sophia could wait, Claudia could wait, Moses could wait. The whole goddamn world could wait. Caution be damned! Why not walkout brazenly into the center of her wide open, maybe fatal, whatever.
“Can I offer you something to drink? I have some mango juice, some Cola.. Do you drink alcohol?” I asked. “I even have some Gin and Tonic for special guests.”
Without answering she rose and stretched like a cat. Taking the kettle on the table she placed it between the logs of the fire.
“Do you have tea? Tanganda or RooiBos?”
Without waiting for my reply, she stood and turned to face me from the opposite side of the fire, looking down on where I sat with fingers furled on my lap.
“Bwana,” she stated firmly, “look at me!”
“Why do you think I am standing here dressed like this? Do you think it is to pander to your pride?”
I stared at her in surprised silence. I had been led into the virtual openness for a reason. The dress was a ruse.
“I dress this way to show you that I am different. I see you looking at me, and I see how you speak to me. Yes, you are a mzungu. But you have grown up in Africa, and spent your life here. Many of your friends are African, thus you have their attitudes. Because I am a woman, you take me to be weaker, less capable, even inferior.”
She moved back to the little table where she placed two tea bags in the two mugs.
“I watch you watching me. I am too young for you, you know that, and yet you still look at me in that way. I see how you ignore the obvious. You ignore that I am different. You don’t see that I want something more.”
She stepped back to the fire, where she extended her long leg, and with the toe of her sandal, pushed a log closer to the hiss of the kettle.
“Do you think that anyone can produce a dress like this out here?”
When caught in any ambush, if one is still alive after the first few seconds of surprise, the only way to survive is to surprise the surprises, to attack back and hope to win the fire-fight, instead of being picked off as one runs away. She had caught me out in the mental open. But before I could even turn to respond she sprung another.
“And I also ask you.. Are you lazy, are you scared?”
“Why have you not responded to what I have told you? Why have you not acted quickly?”
All I could do was let her pick me off at her convenience.
“Bwana, I have told you that the Crocodile has powerful Muti. He makes it himsellf. It is attracting attention from distant places. That is why the Hyena is here. He flies here when the moon is full to get it. You are a m”zungu who understands these matters of Muti. You know where the most powerful Muti comes from. “
“Bwana, you are here to stop the poaching of animals. Everyone knows that It is the money of China and Asia that is behind the demand for our elephant tusks and rhino horns.”
Using a hand towel she grasp the hot handle of the kettle as she lifted it off the fire and poured the water into the cups. Then she added the sugar and splash of milk. She knew how I liked my tea, and handed me the mug.
“It is the same in Africa. Independence has given us people with money. Here they buy a different muti. They want different animal parts for the muti. But they also want human parts. Recently, in Lusaka, a man was court with a freezer full of body parts. As you know the bits of the albino are the most sought after. The word in the villages is that the Hyena wants the medicine from these Mwabi. Most of them have left, or they are in hiding.”
She sat back down on the chair and looked across at me.
“You thwarted that Crocodile with Eddie. But they say the crocodile is still hungry,. He was back here last night. You need to remember that you have a white skin. So be careful that the crocodile does not mistake your whiteness for that of a mwabi.”
She leaned back and sipped her tea as she allowed her words to sink in.
“Also, from what I have told you, do you think that I want to spend the rest of my life married to Eddie, and thus forced to live in the village? “
She paused. “I want to develop my talents in the bigger world. This dress and my skills are lost here. Thus, this place is a stepping stone.
So now, when I warn you, do not be lazy. If you do not find him, the crocodile may find you, when you least expect it, and I need you around, alive and well. I want your help to keep this lodge open so that I can find someone or some way to get me out of this old part of the world.”
I sat silent, staring at her, digesting her words.
“So you see Bwana, we can both help each other. But you will need to show me more respect.”
I looked across the fire. “Please stop calling me Bwana, call me Gideon, or Gidi for short”