Heart of Africa (16 page)

Chapter 19

The monotonous trudge seemed to go on and on. I
ached, I itched, and I fretted. Peter seemed impervious to any of my anxious thoughts, setting a brisk pace that soon had the sweat trickling down my back and between my breasts, soaking my dirty top. I wrapped my sweatshirt around my waist, tying it in a tight knot below my belly button. Occasionally it caught upon a low thorn bush and dragged at me.

After a particularly vicious struggle, I removed the only protection I had between the chill of the evening and me and stuffed it into my knapsack. By this time Peter had surged way ahead of me, only the muted green of his cotton shirt flashing between the thick shrubberies. Having to trot to catch up, I hopped over tricky roots, carefully watching my step in fear I would land flat on my face.

So intent was I that I nearly ran into him. Peter had halted, watching the bush intently, his frozen body and still manner indicating some sort of creature lurked directly in front of us. It was then that I spotted the giraffe. An adult male, dark in color, it towered at least four meters tall. I’d never before considered giraffes dangerous and whispered, “Should we take cover?”

Peter shook his head. “Watch, Mandy,” was all he said.

The dark reticulated giraffe backed himself up against a tall tree with grayish-white bark, whose leaves still remained faintly green during this dry season. The giraffe leaned heavily against the rough bark and, moving up and down, scratched himself violently against the rough bark of the tree. A few moments later he repositioned himself, this time running his long neck up against the tree trunk. I could hear the scraping sound from where I stood.

“Why is he doing that?” I murmured.

“Likely ticks or other parasites. Giraffes usually carry oxpeckers on their body. The birds remove ticks, but for some reason this old fellow doesn’t have any attendant birds. He’s horribly itchy, you see, and must scrape desperately against the bushwillow for some relief.”

I could commiserate with the poor beast; my legs were driving me crazy.

“Do you notice how black his patches are?”

Indeed, I had never observed a giraffe as dark as this one. “Why is that?” I panted, still out of breath.

“He’s very, very old. And look there,” he pointed. “Something has taken a bite out of his left leg.”

My eyes traveled down the giraffe’s elongated body to where a huge scar and indentation distorted his sleek lines.

“We will leave this fellow to his back-scratching,” Peter stated. “But be on the lookout. Giraffes usually travel in herds and while not considered dangerous, if they have young they can be quite protective. I heard a tale once of a giraffe kicking a man to death who had stupidly approached a nursing mother and its baby.”

We gave the angular animal a wide berth and even though I kept my eyes peeled, I saw no further evidence of more giraffe.

“Beware of that plant, Mandy, it is the buffalo bean. Do not touch, please.”

“Why?” The climber in question had long, velvety pods.

“The hairs on the pods are extremely irritating. If you brush them you will regret it for many hours, since the golden hairs are almost impossible to remove. I once made the mistake of picking some for my mother because I thought they were food. My hands were inflamed for days.” Peter’s commentary concluded, he once again strode ahead.

I dutifully followed, beginning to feel downright miserable. My parched throat made it difficult to talk and I noted Peter’s soaked shirt, indicating he was probably extremely thirsty as well. To worsen matters, tiny gnats swarmed around my sweaty face. I swatted at the persistent pests, who were obviously attracted to my perspiration. Suddenly the iron bar of Peter’s arm slammed across my chest, halting me abruptly.

“Check out that tree,” he ordered.

The tree in question had a twisting main stem and drooping foliage. Its gray-brown bark was chiseled roughly and housed clusters of thorns in nasty-appearing hooked pairs. Quite large, standing at least ten meters tall, the tree drooped forward, its leaves hanging down in a manner similar to the South’s famous weeping willow trees. I wondered perhaps if the tree possessed some sort of edible berries and sought to inch closer, but Peter’s iron arm kept me back.

“There, Mandy, among the branches. Do you not see it?”

I peered again, but for the life of me, glimpsed nothing. What on earth was he getting at?

“Where…?” I questioned.

“
There
.”

I followed the direction of his finger and suddenly noticed a green, leafy twig with… bright black eyes? I backed away from the protection of his arm.

“Oh jeez!”

“Isn’t she a fine boomslang?”

It
dangled in the shade of the thorny tree, its blunt head endowed with large emerald eyes that never blinked as it swayed back and forth, looking for prey.
It
was my least favorite thing in the world: a snake.

“If I’d walked under that tree, I could have run right into her!”

“She probably would have moved away. Boomslangs are quite shy and prefer to hunt chameleons and small birds.”

“Is it poisonous?” I asked breathlessly.

“Oh, very. A farmer who was bitten in the village next to our farm died within two days. The venom causes massive internal bleeding. Still, a beautiful, beautiful snake, hey?”

“Yeah, a real dandy.”

“Would you like to get a little closer, lass, to take a better peek?”

“No,” I declined, striving to appear confident but uninterested. “Perhaps another time?”

Peter rolled his dark eyes and I knew full well he recognized my abhorrence of snakes. Ever since Eve, hadn’t our sex loathed the vile species?

“You’re hot and fatigued. Let’s take a break and drink before moving again.”

So, nearer the evil emerald snake than I would have preferred, I chugged down some water, immediately feeling better. Our break was too short. Peter forced us on with a relentless determination.

The grass had become nearly waist-high and I concentrated chiefly on watching my step. Peter’s safari hat was drenched with sweat and constantly slipped down over my eyes. Less than five minutes into our hike, I exclaimed, “Oooh… what’s that horrible smell?”

Peter paused abruptly, his spear-like walking stick held ready. “Over there,” he cautioned.

In the dense shade of a pod mahogany, ghastly-faced vultures hopped over the mostly-devoured corpse of a large antelope.

“It was a kudu,” whispered Peter.

The twisted horns of a large male gleamed an unnatural crimson in this late morning light. Two species of vultures vied for the remaining flesh clinging to the large buck’s bones. Four or so large, brown birds with disgusting red heads curved like striking snakes assaulted the corpse. The other five or so buzzards were smaller, with white heads stained pink. Tearing and plucking savagely, they attacked each other in their frenzy, their curved beaks perfect for grabbing the decaying flesh from the bones as well as warding off any competition.

Peter studied the area. “There,” he whispered, pointing. I was barely able to make out the single footprint, but instinctively knew it belonged to a cat.

“Lion?” I gulped.

“No,” he disagreed after a moment’s study. “A leopard. This was the doing of one cat—lions generally hunt in prides. It’s strange she didn’t drag her dinner into that large sycamore fig. Either something scared her off or, more likely, the kudu proved just too big for her, its oversized horns handicapping her ability to drag it into the tree.”

I’d read that leopards drag their kill into tall trees, not only to protect them against scavengers like the vultures, but to leisurely feed upon the rank corpse over the following days.

“Do you think she’s still around?” I whispered.

“No,” Peter said reassuringly. “Leopards are mostly nocturnal and it’s evident that she’s finished here and has left the vultures to clean up. You have nothing to fear.”

I noticed, however, that he gripped his combination walking stick and spear more tightly. Cautiously, Peter skirted the area, I following him much too closely.

We marched through the warming morning until noon, luckily seeing nothing more dangerous than birds, before I slowed down, hot and thirsty. My legs strangely ached and itched, and I desperately needed to go to the bathroom.

I cleared my throat. “I need to use the bathroom again.”

“Go ahead while I keep watch.” Peter grinned and swept his arm toward the bush, indicating that the whole world was my toilet. The area we traversed was fairly flat, the scrub mopane thrusting up through the dry grass. There, beyond a small log, a clump of bushes provided a bit of concealment, so I wandered as nonchalantly toward the mound as possible. I made quick work of it and had just finished when I noticed my legs and gasped aloud.

“Everything okay, Mandy?” boomed Peter’s voice through the bushes. Peter had discreetly turned around, his sweat-stained shirt visible from where I crouched.

“I… um… ” I answered, flustered. “I’m not sure. There seems to be something strange on my legs.”

Peter turned around slowly. I straightened, pulling up my briefs but leaving my jeans just below my knees to hobble away from my outdoor urinal.

“What is it?” he asked matter-of-factly, nary a muscle moving in his tanned face.

“My legs, they’re… they’re bruised or something.” It was the ‘or something’ that alerted him.

“Let me check.”

I was caught between modesty and confusion, but his almost doctor-like manner reassured me, so I waddled toward him. Peter studied the dark, swollen bruises and numerous welts on my upper legs and couldn’t disguise his swift intake of breath.

“Are there any more?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I admitted and reluctantly dropped my pants down to my trainers. Upon my calves and ankles rose masses of bruised areas. Peter ran a finger over one of them and shook his head grimly.

“Feel those swollen bumps? I’m afraid you’re infested with ticks, Mandy. We’ll have to remove them.”

“Ticks? You mean like dogs have, or that giraffe we saw today?” My voice sounded shrill even to me.

Peter thrust his spear into the dirt. “Unfortunately, lass, just like outdoor pets get. You have at least twenty here upon your legs and perhaps even more on your arms and torso. The ticks perch upon the long grass, waiting for an opportunity to transfer onto any passing host. You’re their latest victim.”

I don’t know if many Americans have ever had the immense pleasure of finding their body riddled with tick bites. These small oval bloodsuckers burrow themselves under your skin and drink as gustily as vampires, swelling up to three times their original size. The only way to remove them is by either pouring rubbing alcohol onto your skin or lighting a match near the entry hole so that the tick backs up, disturbed by the heat. Unfortunately, we had no rubbing alcohol, so Peter removed the few remaining matches from my pack along with the old kerchief I’d swaddled my hand in after the lion attack.

“Try to hold steady, lass. If you jerk, I might burn you.”

I’m certain I made quite an elegant picture standing there with my trousers wadded about my ankles while Peter gently placed burning tips of matches against my skin. Immediately, the first brown tick emerged, bloated twice its normal size with my crimson blood. Peter smashed the bug and used the cloth handkerchief to mop up the tiny droplets of blood oozing from my bites. For fifteen minutes he probed, burned, and squashed the parasites. Most, fortunately, were restricted to my ankles and lower legs, but one had burrowed near my crotch and I hastily turned away my flushed face as Peter’s deadly matches annihilated the tiny beast. The Zimbabwean then asked me to lift my shirt. Fortunately, he spotted only one, an inch or so above my belly button.

“They prefer low-lying grass, so most end up on your legs. You seem clean, lass,” he announced finally. “Hand me your water bottle.” He splashed all my remaining water and most of his over the oozing wounds to clean them. “That should do for now,” Peter said casually, as I hastily pulled up my pants, my face burning.

“Your trousers are much too loose on the bottom, allowing ticks to burrow in. See my trousers, Mandy, how they’re stuffed inside my boots. I have an idea.”

Peter untied both of his boots and using his knife, cut off two long but equal lengths from his laces.

“Use these,” he said, “to bind the bottoms of your pant legs.”

The wounds inadequately cleansed, I wrapped the laces tightly around my pant legs.

“We need to wash your wounds better,” Peter announced. “You must know that it is possible to get a disease called tick-bite fever. If, in a couple weeks, you have a terrible headache, chills and fever, and feel the need to vomit, we’ll check with your doctor and indicate you had a tick infestation. They’ll prescribe you medication to ward off the symptoms.” I loved how he had used the word “we.”

On this happy note we started off again, my thirst increasing as my tick bites throbbed. Blood seeped through the cloth, making small circular spots upon the filthy denim to mark the tick wounds. The bites itched painfully and soon another misery arrived to torment me as small flies, attracted by the oozing blood, swarmed about my stained jeans.