Heart of Africa (2 page)

And there it stood, her not-so-subtle statement branding Ms. Mandy Phillips as the quivering coward she really was. Now, Ms. Tanika Raymond patiently waited for me to renege on an African trip as I salivated over a European holiday in the fiords. My battered pride, coupled with a sudden, desperate urge to stand up for once, made me lift my chin.

“Quite the contrary. I wish to book a trip to Africa, but not to Kenya. Perhaps you could recommend a destination full of intriguing sights and wild animals? A first-class safari to… um… somewhere else?”

Ms. Raymond seemed momentarily taken aback, never dreaming I had it in me. “In… in
Africa
?”

“Yes. I have a three-week holiday coming up in six weeks and a pretty good-sized refund burning a hole in my pocket. There’s no use crying over rotten eggs. I
really
need to get away for a while, and Africa’s where I want to go. Any recommendations?”

A strange expression flitted over Ms. Raymond’s face. “I think I just might. A guided tour, or do you want to go it alone?”

Right now the
alone
word sounded irresistible to me. “Alone,” I answered stoutly even though I was perfectly awful at all that alone stuff.

“South Africa is one of the most affordable African destinations right now and has a superb infrastructure. I can offer you a flight and a package at a far more reasonable rate than your honeymoon trip, and you can still travel first class. The animals are unsurpassed in abundance and variety. South Africa has been a front-runner in the preservation of endangered animals such as the rhino and wild dog. It’s a fascinating place. However, there
is
a downside: motorists drive on the left and the crime rate is quite high.”

I hesitated for only a few seconds. I had been mugged, my wallet stolen at gunpoint, on a holiday trip to Miami two years ago, and while it had taken months to get over
that
experience, I was not about to let Ms. Raymond sense my jitters.

I insisted stoutly, “I can deal with that. Just make sure you reserve me an automatic along with a great map, and book me into no less than four-star hotels. I don’t do roughing it or drop-pit toilets, and I absolutely refuse to start any day without my coffee, a hot shower, and a neatly folded newspaper.” I smiled broadly, suddenly happier than I’d been in months.

The travel agent grinned back. “I’ll bear that in mind.” And she added, “He’s no great loss.  Men like him are a dime a dozen.  You deserve better.”

Within twenty-four hours, Ms. Raymond called with
the
package for me, consisting of an adventure-packed fly/drive fourteen-day holiday. First, I would stop in Cape Town for a night, and then fly to Kruger National Park the next morning. After nine days on a self-drive safari in an animal-proof 4 x 4, I would zoom back to Cape Town to “bask in luxury,” as Ms. Raymond put it.

“It’s a long haul to Cape Town and since you’ll arrive in the late afternoon, I think it best to book you into one of my other client’s favorite hotels for the night. We’ll use the same hotel when you fly back at the end of your trip. Charles travels a great deal and always stays at The Vineyard. Would you like to rent a car for your overnight in Cape Town, or just catch a taxi to the hotel and its surrounds?”

I gulped, glad Ms. Raymond couldn’t see me on her end of the line. The urge to scream out
taxi
nearly won, but instead I answered confidently, as if it didn’t matter a whit.

“A rental car please.” It was clear I’d need lots of practice if destined to drive through a game park all by myself.

“Fine. I’ll take care of it. I’ve placed you on an early flight the next morning up to Phalaborwa Airstrip, where you will pick up your second rental car. I booked you a luxury BMW for the first leg and a jeep for the second. From Phalaborwa you’ll proceed to Letaba
,
a large camp inside Kruger National Park. I could send you to a private game reserve like Mala Mala, but they are more
couple
-oriented. This way you can venture out on your own but still vacation at a very high standard. Winter is the best time in Kruger for game viewing, so I’ve slotted you into three of my previous clients’ favorite camps in hopes that you’ll be exposed to several different eco-regions to glimpse the greatest variety of animals; though I’m afraid I might not be able to promise you the folded newspaper.”

Humor and something akin to defiant challenge registered in her voice.

“I can survive without the paper,” I laughed.

There was no time to reevaluate my decision. I was going, and that was that. I took Ms. Raymond’s advice about warm clothes as well as leaving some space in my luggage for a few of the country’s renowned African crafts. That very afternoon, realizing I’d need extra spending money, I ventured tentatively into the jewelry store where Josh had purchased the rings. Marvin’s Jewelers was reluctant but cordial.

“No chance of you two making up?” Marvin asked. He looked to be about a hundred and had owned the shop forever. His fidgety blue eyes gleamed under gigantic black eyebrows that sprouted in a horrific cluster above his all-seeing eyes. I could tell he was a hopeless romantic.

“Not a chance,” I replied firmly.

“Could I interest you in something else—a lovely diamond bracelet perhaps? That would make you forget him.”

“Thanks Marvin, but no thanks.”

The jeweler could see that no amount of urging was going to make me part with my refund and regretfully, shaking his shaggy head, he started the paperwork. Ten minutes later I gratefully walked out of his store with a balance of $3439.84 credited to my account. Now, that was service and then some.

Chapter 3

I was brought back to the present by my mother’s voice
. “I worry about you embarking on this trip so much Mandy because, generally, you’re not very… ”

“Confident?”

“Well, that too, but it wasn’t precisely the word I was looking for. Adventurous is much more, well, apropos. Let’s face it Mandy, you’d prefer staying home and renting a DVD, for God’s sake. Watching others deal with the hassles of life is much more your style. Even as a child you were an observer, not a joiner. Peace and quiet amidst unchanging routine is how you best cope with the stresses of life. You’re so timid and grounded in routine that I guarantee you’ll be miserable within a day. And God knows you hate dirt!

I sincerely don’t know how you’re going to survive in primitive Africa. I just hope they have indoor toilets! Remember how, during that trip to Memphis when you were a little girl, there was a long stretch without a gas station and Dad suggested you go in the bushes. My God, girl, you were in agony for fifty miles because you refused to squat in the weeds!”

“How sweet of you to remind me of that Mom, but you needn’t worry. My travel agent has booked me into luxury hotels and promises me that the infrastructure in South Africa is practically
first world.”

“Practically? What on earth does that mean? You don’t do
practically!”

“Please Mother, keep it down!”

My mother didn’t bat an eyelash. “I hope that Ms. Raymond at Azure Travel knows what she is doing. Oh, it’s just too bad your marriage didn’t work out. A good man and the start to a family is really what you need, not a trip to the heart of the third world.”

We had arrived at Security and my mother, ticketless, would have to remain behind. Thank God for small favors! My mother just didn’t get it. A man wasn’t the simple cure-all for life’s problems.

“Meeting the right man will change your mind about marriage, you’ll see. Josh just wasn’t the right man,” Mom continued.

It was useless to argue with her, so I tried a different tactic. “You have to admit, Mom, that I need to get away. My life is just too ordered, too ordinary, and too awful. But you’re right about one thing. I
have
created this tightly-organized pattern of existence that allows me to function normally, but there has to be more to life than a job, taxes, and a cheating fiancé. I need to expand my horizons and try, just this once, to carve out my own niche without anyone else’s influence or interference. Goodbye, Mom. I’ll see you and Ken when I get back with lots of great adventures to tell.”

My mother choked down whatever she had meant to say and instead leaned forward to give me a quick hug.

“Be safe, Mandy. And you will… write?”

I smiled, amazed to note that Mother’s eyes were actually tearing up. “I asked for first-class hotels. I’m sure they’ll have Internet. I’ll e-mail. I promise.”

“Well then, goodbye, dear. Be safe. I worry about you so. I’ll… I’ll miss you.”

“Don’t you worry, Mom. I’ll play it safe. Look, I’ve gotta go. Love you.”

Gratefully, I kissed my mother’s cheek and proceeded through Security without a glance behind me, all set for my grand adventure.

Chapter 4

Loneliness gripped me on that long flight to Cape Town
and I fidgeted, struggling to cope for at least ninety minutes before mercifully falling asleep in that semi-reclined position business class allows. Later, when I awoke, groggy and confused by my whereabouts, I was pleased to discover I’d slept a full six hours and now felt mildly refreshed. Bored, I flicked through the channels of my private TV before switching to the audio channels, settling on classical music. This seemed a good time to study the expensive guide book I’d purchased in Orlando regarding South Africa.

It appeared the fledgling democracy, not even twenty-five years old, was now a tourist haven. For over an hour I read about the country’s diverse wildlife and culture, only flinching once at a section devoted to tips for the first-time traveler. My shoulders instantly stiffened, my palms grew damp, and the threat of one of my ever-lurking migraines began teasing my skull.

For North American and European travelers, it is important to note that South Africa and its neighbors have adopted the British style of driving, so be prepared to keep to the left whilst driving. Local petrol stations are quite helpful, and don’t forget to tip the attendant who puts gas in your car.

There, in the muted light of the business-class compartment, I admitted how much I really hated to drive. Mandy Phillips was one who’d always be content to take the bus, hitch rides, or sit in the backseat with friends, happily denouncing all future car payments.

Now, I’d actually had the audacity to rent a car in a foreign country. Not only would I have to do all the driving, but that foolhardy decision would sorely test my lack of directional sense and recurring tendency to get lost. I’d always gratefully relegated the driving to Josh while he, the eternal show-off, had loved to parade his bright red Porsche through downtown Orlando.

The compartment lights intensified as the pilot announced that we were less than two hours away from Cape Town. A light snack of braised chicken, bean salad, and an untouched pudding managed to fortify me, and I breathed easier. Stay calm, I kept repeating to myself.

The descent into Cape Town was nothing less than spectacular. I pretended to appreciate it while white-knuckling my seat’s narrow arms. At two in the afternoon, Table Mountain seemed bathed in light, its flat top reminding me of a marine haircut. The aircraft landed with a bump and a jerk, the noisy brakes quickly slowing the huge Boeing to a manageable speed until finally, we were being towed into the waiting port. I flexed my stiff fingers shakily, hesitant to unbuckle my seatbelt.

I nervously gathered up my things—the shoulder tote bag made heavy with an unread paperback and all the medicines my mother had forced me to pack—and prepared to disembark. Adding to its weight and waiting for use was a brand-new digital Nikon with a telephoto lens.

Twenty minutes later, with a South African stamp permanently printed inside my passport; I analyzed the long line of car rental agencies flanking the terminal before locating the one I’d booked with. A busy Cape Malay woman nodded briskly at me over the counter and with little conversation, set me up with a luxury car. She instructed me to head to the lot to pick up number B8, after inquiring whether I wished to rent a cell phone.

I shook my head. Who did I have to call, after all? I headed for the nearly-empty lot where an ebony-colored man with the improbable name of Precious pinned upon his shirt materialized at my shoulder. I handed him my card and was led to a beautifully clean, blue BMW with a CD player and unnecessary air conditioner. Precious examined the car, searching for any dents or scratches. I had asked the desk attendant for a map and now opened it for him, mentioning I’d booked at the Vineyard Hotel.

“Oh it’s easy, Mama,” soothed Precious. “You simply follow this road. Turn left at the robot, then left again and follow the signs to the N2, hey. Keep on until you hit the M3. It will be a lovely treed road, quite beautiful at this time of day, and keep going until you see a petrol station on your left. That is Paradise Road. Follow it and take the left road when the main road veers, which is Colinton Road. You can’t miss the hotel. It’s right here on the map.” He whipped out a pen and circled the spot.

It sounded simple. Any
fool
could make it to the suburbs of Newlands and the Vineyard Hotel.

“Thank you,” I said.

“It’s a pleasure.”

“Uh… Precious. That’s an unusual name.”

He wagged his dark head. “My mother gave birth to three sons who died within twenty-four hours after birth. When I was born and survived past the third day, she named me Precious. My
umama
was quite grateful for sure.”

I smiled and offered him a tentative five-rand tip before grasping the proffered keys and swinging into the right side of the car. Taking a deep breath, I turned the key in the ignition but nothing, not even a whisper of the engine.

“I’m afraid you must press the button on the key, ma’am,” instructed Precious politely.

“What?” I searched the dashboard, reddening.

“No ma’am, it’s on the key.” There it was, of course. I was too used to my keyless Prius. In this security-minded country, all cars were wisely alarmed. I sheepishly pressed the button and was immediately rewarded with an answering beep. The engine purred as I waved gratefully at the concerned attendant. Pressing the accelerator gingerly, I pulled out right into the oncoming traffic!

“
Leer bestuur, jou idioot!”
[1]
Luckily the irate male driver of the red Audi managed to slam on his brakes in time, his pudgy hands pounding the horn.

Precious shouted frantically, “You must stay
left,
Mama! Look right! Remember—stay
left
, look right!”

I crawled into the correct lane as the fuming man flipped me the bird. My palms, sliding awkwardly over the steering wheel, were completely soaked and my heart was practicing the rumba. Inching carefully down the road, my face burned. What little confidence I’d drummed up before the trip was completely blown. Precious had said turn left at the robot… robot? That meant traffic light, didn’t it? Already confused, I decided to follow the other vehicles merging into my lane, hoping they’d lead to the exit.

Before I knew it I’d merged onto a highway clearly labeled the N2, and I breathed easier. Why, this was a piece of cake. As long as I followed other cars I’d be fine; within a few minutes or so, hopefully by some sort of osmosis, I would absorb this backward kind of driving and fit right in. Struggling, I created a little chant in my mind and repeated it over and over.
Stay left, look right, and everything will be alright.

I proceeded a long way on the highway, noting plenty of off-ramps named with various letters and numbers such as the M7 and M5. The hotel was about fifteen kilometers away, which I translated to be about ten miles. If I kept this pace, I’d be just fine. A car swerved angrily by and it was only then I realized I was inadvertently traveling in the fast lane. Quickly moving to the left, I mentally thanked the slow-moving van preceding me. Situated behind its plodding pace, I could present a hazard to no one.

An overhead sign indicated the M3 coming up in five hundred meters. Meters! What in the heck did that mean? Confused, I realized it was crucial to connect with the M3 and took the first left. Within sixty seconds my mistake became apparent and I banged my fist upon the steering wheel in frustration. I’d exited too soon. Meters were like yards, only a couple of inches longer! I was supposed to exit at about five hundred yards, not fifty! Athletically perspiring, I frantically peered about and noted a green sign stating
M4
in bold, black letters. I’d taken the wrong turnoff and now was driving to who knows where on the wrong highway in a foreign country! Cursing as vividly as a trooper, I frantically searched for a place to turn around. My best bet was to exit at the first left, but after I did that I couldn’t find the way back to the N2.

It’s an embarrassing thing to acknowledge one’s grossly evident faults. I remembered my clumsy dancing as a child and how I’d prayed that my nose would become more aquiline and less turned up, just like Joy Carter’s. In high school, I had egoistically desired to tan better, wishing that the reddish shade giving my pale skin its only color would transform into an exotic tint. In even more vain moments I’d wished to sing like the lark and whisper like Marlene Dietrich. However, these faults, or perhaps flaws, were not truly embarrassing except at nude beaches or karaoke bars. But having a complete lack of direction—now
that
could be sticky!

Thank God I’d ventured out alone and had no one to comment acidly on my current mishap. I remembered rather belatedly how Josh had commented on my often faulty driving skills. Boy, would he have lots of ammunition now! After fifteen minutes of aimlessly turning right and left and getting nowhere, I finally pulled into a petrol station and asked how to return to the M3 heading for Newlands. The colored man, dyed a nutty shade of earth brown and missing half his teeth, kindly directed me back onto the highway, refusing my hastily-offered note.

Finally heading in the right direction, my eyes searched for Paradise Road and the gas station. Miraculously, it appeared and I veered left. Within half a kilometer the hotel emerged underneath a canopy of trees. The turn into the hotel’s driveway loomed abruptly and I took it way too fast, screeching the tires as I braked. A less-than-stately entrance appeared just to my left, covered by an arched canopy and manned by a lanky uniformed attendant. As I brought the car to a jerky halt, a doorman named Mongi grinned, revealing a shiny gold tooth.

“
Sawubona!
Welcome! Shall I park your car for you, ma’am?” he offered. Too exhausted and embarrassed to do anything but acquiesce, I dropped the sweaty keys into his brown hand.

“You’ll leave the keys at the desk?”

“Of course, ma’am.”

I followed the porter inside, who wisely said nothing. To my surprise, the foyer and lobby were stunning, decorated in that quiet elegance which insists that one abandon their troubles at the door. Dual greenish-bronze, petite cannons pointed outward, guarding the marbled entryway, which opened into a deluxe foyer across from a large, sunny, atrium-styled restaurant. The hotel was well maintained, stylish, and exceptionally designed, with a fine sense of character and understated sophistication.

A tall, sandy-headed man leaned against a pillar near the entrance and had clearly witnessed my less-than-sophisticated arrival. His tired face, though sporting an unshaven chin, was highly pleasing with intelligent, chocolate-brown eyes above a thin nose within a highly tanned face. Laugh lines edged his mouth and he was casually dressed in safari gear. The stranger surveyed me unnervingly before suddenly smiling and I dropped my eyes, flaming once again.

I turned right and headed toward reception. A broad-shouldered, good-looking blond man bearing a name tag emblazoned with the frightfully long name of Reggie
Maarschalkerweerd
waited behind the beautifully polished counter, and flashed me a perfect smile. I shuffled through my bag to retrieve my hotel voucher and was rewarded with perfect professionalism. There were no mishaps, no confusion, no foul-ups. My reservation filled the computer screen; my name was even spelled correctly. Relieved to realize I was so clearly expected and welcome, I scribbled my passport details inside the small white boxes of the check-in form as the efficient male receptionist pushed the computer keys in tandem.

“Smoking or non-smoking?” Reggie inquired in a faint Afrikaans accent.

“Non-smoking please.”

“I can arrange that, ma’am.”

“I’m so very tired. Do you have a quiet section?”

“Yes, Miss Phillips. This is quite an old hotel, and unlike the new, thrown-up structures, the walls are thick enough to guarantee complete privacy.”

I flashed him an exhausted smile. “And dinner is served when?”

“At seven onto ten. Shall I book you?”

“I’m not sure,” I said truthfully. “Can I have a meal without a reservation, if I feel up to it?

“I’m sure that won’t be a problem, Miss Phillips.” Reggie motioned to a heavy black man in a maroon uniform to carry up my single bag.

“It has wheels,” I informed the perspiring man softly as he grunted under the weight. The brightly clad porter took off, totally ignoring the wheels, with me following in his wake.

The tall, leaning man with the tired face grinned, noting the porter’s progress.

“It’s a better workout for sure,” he said, his South African accent strong.

“It is indeed,” I returned, trying to appear nonchalant.

The stranger shouldered a large, tan duffle bag and followed me out of the lobby and down to a cross-section of corridors. I made a show of checking out my room numbers and paused, genuinely bewildered.

He kindly leaned over and squinted at my room number. “This hotel used to be a house and therefore it is a bit of a maze. You must proceed down that wing and then up the short flight of stairs. Your room should be just… ah, on the left, I believe. You’ll have a view of Table Mountain. Have a delightful stay,” he added with a polite wave before turning left towards a different hallway.