Heart of Africa (4 page)

Stunned, I croaked out, “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s apparent you’ve discerned the sun doesn’t always shine every day.”

“And how did you figure that out?” I returned coldly, feeling myself flame. We’d paused near the wide terrace overlooking the expansive garden.

“It’s apparent you didn’t plan to holiday in Africa
alone.
I can make out where you used to wear a ring. On your third finger…”

I glanced down. Though the white tan line where the magnificent ring once rested had faded; the circular white patch was still faintly apparent. My flush intensified as my stomach knotted.

I sputtered, “Thanks for the tour, Mr. Leigh. I have an early flight to Kruger tomorrow morning and need to get some rest. Thanks for your company at dinner and your informative tour of the hotel.”

“Mandy…” Peter Leigh said, his chocolate-brown eyes suddenly remorseful.

“Good night,” I managed before whirling and fleeing to the sanctity of my room.

Nestled wearily under the covers, a pile of used tissues littering the side table, I forced myself to reread the tour book carefully even though my eyes kept pooling. A drop splattered across the Stellenbosch page.

Angrily I slapped shut the book. Just who did Peter Leigh think he was anyway? Probably just some con artist targeting single women in hopes of either procuring a guide job or getting a quickie from what he believed was a lonely, forlorn woman.

“I am neither lonely nor forlorn!” I protested to the empty room. Did my pathetic face really reveal all that pent-up melancholy? Ruthlessly I snapped out the light, praying for sleep, but the happiness I’d momentarily felt over dinner dissipated as I wept into my pillow.

Chapter 6

The next morning I awoke bright and early to take a
long shower, hoping to revive myself. I hadn’t slept well; Peter Leigh’s words mocked me even in my dreams. I forced myself to check my packed bags once more before heading down for breakfast and there it was, a note in a white envelope slipped under the door. I waited a full minute before succumbing, and retrieved the small envelope. Peter Leigh’s masculine, well-formed writing seemed just like him.

Mandy,

I am so sorry to have caused you any distress. That was a thoughtless comment on my part and I hope you can forgive me. Perhaps I’ll run into you in Kruger and somehow make amends, but if not, I wish you only the best on your travels. Be safe.

Peter Leigh

I threw the letter into my carry-on and zipped the lid tightly. So much for a handsome diversion on the trip. Pathetic… that’s what my life was… pathetic. I applied tear-disguising makeup and headed downstairs to take a meal of sunny-side-up eggs, brown bread, and some of the Cape’s famous cheeses. I might as well have dined on cardboard.

Table Mountain glowed in the distance, rising out of the immaculately-manicured garden surrounding the picturesque hotel. Crane flowers, Egyptian geese, noisy waxbills, and a vivid double-collared sunbird vied for a final photo before I checked out. Peter Leigh didn’t put in an appearance—not that I thought he would—and I resolutely drove the blue BMW to the airport and managed to drop it off without one single mishap. My mother, cousin, and Mr. Leigh for that matter, would have been astounded.

I relaxed in the sports bar for thirty minutes watching a drag race on the small screen and sipping an odd-flavored, warm drink called
rooibos
tea. The half-full South African Airlines flight to Johannesburg passed uneventfully and later, after a couple hours of fidgeting anxiously in the beautiful JHS airport, I finally heard the boarding call for my connecting flight to the Phalaborwa Airstrip.

I spotted the small aircraft outside the airport’s huge windows and was suddenly filled with trepidation. A mere Jetstream—the blasted thing only held twenty-nine seats! Swallowing nervously, I boarded the compact plane and sank tentatively into my gray seat next to an obese black man whose eyes were already shut. No matter how I maneuvered, I couldn’t distance myself from him and ended up sitting rigidly, my personal space cruelly violated as the last remnants of my self-confidence were vanquished.

The ensuing flight proved a nightmare as the toy plane bounced and groaned. The oblivious flight attendant handed out peanuts and soft drinks, never once spilling a drop during all the turbulence. The deafening throb of the twin propellers made it impossible to hold a conversation, much less think. I pretended to doze in my seat, squirreled away as far as I could manage from my sleeping neighbor, whose mouth now hung open. He snored gustily, though fortunately the din of the airplane motors drowned out the majority of his snorts.

Nearly two miserable hours later, after dosing myself with three antacid tablets and one of my migraine pills, the plane swung steeply downward. Through the small porthole I noted that the runway seemed far too short and gasped in horror. My seatmate snored on as I mentally measured the airstrip. No more than a thousand meters long or so, the small plane shuddered and lost altitude. Fiendish air currents battered the aircraft as its landing gear noisily descended.

I whispered a fervent prayer and prepared to die. Stomach in knots, I gripped the armrests until my knuckles turned white. The rotund gentleman next to me gave a loud snort as the plane touched earth and bounced twice.

“Are we there?” he mumbled groggily.

I was too frightened to do more than nod as the plane skidded to a stop. The perky flight attendant helped me gather up my things. Still shaky, I disembarked and peered about me.

The Phalaborwa airfield hosted a small but comfortable terminal and within minutes I’d retrieved my luggage (there were
some
advantages to small planes) and pondered my next move. My white shirt hopelessly creased and sweaty, I scanned the small line of rental car agencies. Surprisingly, all the major names were represented: National, Hertz, Eurocar, and Avis. Heading toward the latter agency, I was rewarded when a bored young African woman handed me the jeep’s key within a matter of minutes.

“An automatic, as you requested.”

“Thanks. I’m spending the night at Letaba camp. Which way do I proceed?” I asked.

“Leave the airport and turn left. The main road runs right into the Phalaborwa Gate. Once inside, the signs will direct you to Letaba rest camp.”

This sounded encouraging. “So it’s just a few minutes away?”

The clerk gave an indolent shrug. “The gate is close, but once inside Kruger it’s a bit of a ways to Letaba. I must warn you the road is bad in some places.” She passed me an area map and focused upon the next customer; a thin, washed-out man wearing thick glasses. I’d been dismissed.

Tentatively I headed for the small parking lot and handed my car claim tag to a skinny black man in a blue jumpsuit. He pointed a finger at a sleek 4 x 4. The jeep gleamed jungle green, and came equipped with comfortable seats and a removable top for better game viewing. The languid attendant hauled my luggage into the spacious rear and showed me how to remove the roof before flashing me a lazy thumbs-up send off. Remembering my trial run in Cape Town, and chanting the little song of
stay left; look right,
I departed the minuscule airport for my grand safari. Over the next ninety minutes I spent my time alternating between avoiding potholes, lagging behind smoking trucks, and gazing amazed at the countless metal shacks situated just off the road.

A wire fence, decorated in breeze-filled plastic trash bags, surrounded a makeshift soccer field where shoeless ebony youths kicked at a dilapidated soccer ball. A large trash heap, attended by sturdy goats and a rooting pig, stood near a water pump where a long line of skinny girls in outgrown faded dresses waited for a turn. An old man leaning on a cane and dressed in a drab brown suit surveyed the road. A brand-new Toyota Land Cruiser sailed past my slower jeep, packed with a lively white family obviously heading for Kruger Park.

I passed a billboard decorated with the red curved and crossed ribbon symbolizing the fight against AIDS and a scrawny child of about five clad in a dirty pink dress, kicking at the dirt before waving energetically at me. I shyly waved back before gripping the steering wheel more tightly. Where, oh where was the gate?

By the time I made it to the Phalaborwa Gate, I felt exhausted and irritable. I’d expected Letaba to be close, but realized I still had a great distance to continue to reach my lodgings. To top it off, I had headache that was threatening to transform into a full-fledged migraine. I left the rental vehicle to pay the park entrance fee. Here the grounds, though roughly landscaped, were well-maintained. I was surprised when the smiling park attendant handed me a large paper bag.

“No plastic bags allowed in the park, ma’am.” The young man grinned, a wide gap situated charmingly between his front teeth. His tag indicated the comforting name of Charles. He sold me a detailed map, stating, “Not to worry, ma’am. Letaba is due east on the H-9. Just follow the signs. You’ll pass through the Rhidorda Pan, where one often sights giraffe and elephant.”

My pulse quickened as I followed a white Mazda onto the tarred road. I had just handed the entry form to the green-uniformed guard, when I gasped and pointed out the window. There, a large, graceful herd of brown and white buck, a few sporting twisted black horns, grazed tranquilly near the entrance.

The guard chuckled. “Impala, miss. There are thousands in the park. See their bottoms?”

I peered intently. A telltale
M
decorated each buck near its white, tucked tail.

“They’re the McDonald’s of the park. Everything wants a taste of those juicy hindquarters.” I laughed merrily with him before heading toward my final destination of the day, my headache subsiding somewhat.

It was the afternoon of the giraffe as I set out for Letaba on the main road. My first glimpse of the world’s tallest mammal came through the trees, where a stately head bobbed between thorny branches as it loped along. Too distant for a good photo, I parked the jeep so I could watch my first real sighting lurch out of view. Later, at a water hole, three of the large creatures drank, spreading their long legs wide apart so they could maneuver their oversized necks close enough to lap up the water. I just couldn’t get enough of the amazing creatures. A few impala wandered between them, eyes briskly alert before dropping their lovely heads to drink. Large ground birds, speckled black and white, scurried between them to drink and chatter nosily. Within an hour at Kruger, I’d snapped over fifty photos.

I glimpsed little more the rest of the afternoon until noting the oddest tree I’d ever run across. Its monstrous squat trunk reached root-like tentacles toward the cobalt sky. I thumbed furiously through my guide book, making the victorious identification. It was the famous baobab, called the upside-down tree by locals. Often several thousand years old, during winter the baobab’s leafless branches hover above its enormous trunk, gleaming an eerie gray-white in the bright sunlight. Impossible to miss, the tree’s majestic starkness is nearly indescribable.

I took at least a dozen shots from every angle with the newly initiated Nikon, hoping to obtain one decent shot of the twenty-five meter high tree to blow up and frame for my new, bare-walled condo. Nearby, I noted an area blackened by brush fire, the haphazard path of flame having randomly missed several thorny trees while totally destroying others. I’d read on my initial flight to Cape Town about the veldt fires that redistributed the nutrients back into the parched earth during the winter. Their merciless flames enabled the wild grasses and flowers to spring forth with renewed life during the rainy season that started in October.

I traveled no faster than fifty kilometers an hour that afternoon and finally arrived at Letaba tired but relaxed, having for once thoroughly enjoyed driving.

Entering the large reception hall, I marveled at the handsome place and discovered the camp’s name meant “river of sand” in Sotho, one of the many South African languages. Spectacularly situated above the sweeping, wide bends of the Letaba River, it overlooked a huge flood plain where unafraid animals drank and grazed upon the rich grass bordering the shallow water. After being allotted a small two-bed rondavel with a quaint thatched roof, I lugged my maroon bag to the small room overlooking the river. I halted, amazed. Only ten yards from my door, a small, sturdy buck lifted soft eyes to observe me. Fearless, it chewed on a sprig of bright grass hanging from its lips like a thin vegan cigarette.

The creature was lovely beyond measure with broad ears, bright, dark eyes, and a smattering of white spots dappling a lovely brown coat. Dainty black hoofs stepped gingerly over the green grass, artificially watered by a long length of black hose. I remained transfixed for several minutes until the unperturbed buck moved away. Later I discovered a huge glass information board inside the large, grassy area, discussing the prevalence of bushbuck inside the Letaba rest camp. Bushbuck were allowed to wander the enclosed grounds freely, though only females and their young are allotted this privilege. The bushbuck males were so reputedly fierce, they’d been known to attack lions and often emerge victorious, impaling the predator with their short, sharp horns.

Huge trees of Natal mahogany and exotic marula dotted the well-maintained lawn. The camp buzzed with bright yellow and black weaver birds busily snatching grass so they could intricately weave their basket-shaped nests. Iridescent blue-black starlings made my late afternoon snack of a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich a supreme pleasure as the cheeky birds tried to snatch crumbs off nearby tables. The self-service restaurant overlooked the immense river, delivering an unblemished view of more grazing impala, which were later joined by black- and brown-striped zebra. Confused, I flipped through my guide book, stunned that these South African zebra were nothing similar to the ones I’d ogled while visiting the zoo as a child. Even more distant, a large herd of wildebeest lazily made their way downriver. Lunch at the hospital cafeteria had never been like this!

Later, I returned to the reception hall to explore Letaba’s elephant museum, which I’d noticed upon my arrival. Inside, huge tusks and skulls of the Magnificent Seven—elephants so named because of the immense size of their tusks—filled the hall. One display in particular fascinated me. The elephant Shawu had the longest tusks ever reported in the park. Each tusk measured over nine feet in length and hung on the white-washed walls in quiet dignity. Hopefully, I would be able to view some descendants of these large “tuskers” for myself over the next few days.

“Having a good time?” drawled a familiar cultured South African voice.

I whirled and there stood Peter Leigh, once again dressed in his safari khakis and now sporting a wide-brimmed hat.

“What are you doing here?” I hissed.

He shrugged. “Well, today I’m holidaying, though I’m supposed to meet a client here tomorrow. I often work in the park, remember. This museum is one of my favorites. Fancy running into you, though, Miss Phillips.”