Heart of Africa (8 page)

The telltale zing and ricochet of a bullet whizzed by my head, and I realized their intent. I must be killed quickly to avoid an eyewitness to their crime. Two of the men tore off after me and I suddenly had cause to bless the aerobics classes I faithfully attended four times a week as I careened pell-mell through the veldt. Another bullet whizzed past my cheek and a third kicked up the dust in front of me. Amazingly, the searching bullets missed me entirely, though the befuddled men fired at least half a dozen rounds. Even in my desperate attempt at escape, my heart and head cried out for Peter. If only I could get to him. Another bullet whizzed past my head and actually cropped some of my hair.

I could sense rather than see one of the men gaining on me, the thud of his feet echoing against the dusty earth. I swerved into a thorn bush, which tore at my cheek and ripped my long-sleeved t-shirt. Another burst of fire issued from the embankment and a cry of agony erupted from somewhere behind me. They had shot one of their own! It didn’t slow me down one iota. As I reached the vast expanse of the river, the notion that crocodiles, snakes, or even a lion might be near never occurred to me. I simply plunged noisily into the water, oblivious to any other danger than the pursuing men. The river spanned a hundred feet wide and at one point I nearly went down; the water suddenly swirling just below my hips, and deeper than I expected. I didn’t falter, the fear of death propelling me toward the seeming safety of Mozambique. Wild shouting reverberated behind me and I could discern some of their desperate words.

“You must come back, ma’am! You will die in the
bundu,
for the lions will eat you! We won’t hurt you, Mama! Come back!”

It was a no-brainer. I’d rather risk being eaten by lions than being raped and murdered by ruthless hijackers. I ran until I could run no more, finally dropping heavily by a sycamore fig tree in a desperate attempt to catch my breath. I roused within a few seconds, some sense of preservation propelling me up into the huge tree. The fig’s roughly gnarled trunk provided a nearly horizontal overhang, which I scampered up onto like a frightened monkey. There, with chest heaving and backpack perched by my side, I rested and watched.

Minutes ticked by, but no one pursued. Only the trill of some bird in the bush and the distant gurgle of water disturbed the midday calm. Finally it struck me why I heard nothing. They simply hadn’t followed me any farther. Their common sense indicated that as a woman alone in the wilds, a citified tourist with no survival skills, they didn’t need to find me. They had assumed, quite correctly, that the bush would prove my eventual graveyard. Given time, my body would be torn apart by greedy scavengers, my corpse a mute witness to their crimes. They didn’t believe that I had ever been accompanied by a man. They’d never seen Peter in the jeep, and because I sat in the driver’s seat, assumed I was alone. I shivered forlornly, only now realizing my folly. They were indeed correct. I had only seemingly escaped. In actuality, I was completely and utterly alone, totally lost in the bush and with Peter nowhere to be found.

Chapter 9

Thirty minutes later, after uselessly alternating between
tears and rage, I pulled myself together enough to rummage through my backpack. I removed my gray sweatshirt and laid the bag’s paltry contents upon it. My treasure trove consisted of four energy bars, a box of Lion matches, one penlight flashlight with extra batteries, two small tissue packs, an open pack of cherry gum, dental floss, a nearly full two-liter bottle of spring water, antacid tablets, an extra hair tie, a small pack of
biltong
(the South African version of jerky), two large bags of salted peanuts, three apples, a pen, my small notepad and, God be praised, my Swiss army knife.

This was all that separated me between life and death in the African bush. I fingered the items glumly. Why hadn’t I packed more food and water for God’s sake? My map, binoculars, camera, and guidebook had rested near the console of the jeep and my wallet, chalet key, and park pass were in the vehicle’s dash. A loud
tink-tink
sound caused me to jerk and the gum, floss, and bottled water bounced into the dark foliage below.

It was only a pair of noisy black and white plovers aggressively warning away a large, cream egret-type bird, and I laughed shakily. Replacing all my gear inside the small backpack and swinging it over my sweaty shoulders, I cautiously half-slid, half-crept down the huge tree. I collected the fallen items scattered about and brushed off several oversized black ants now crawling over them. Sweeping the items back into my carryall, I crept back up the tree again to sit perched like some misshapen cat upon the sycamore fig’s wide branches.

Of course I’d forgotten that this was the very type of tree that leopards or deadly snakes might prefer. For now, its shady branches simply offered a safe haven, a refuge while I tried to collect my wits and decide what to do next. My cheek felt damp and I touched it tentatively, my finger coming away red from a jagged tear inflicted by the thorn tree. I removed one of the tissues and dabbed absently, wishing with all my heart that I had a better sense of direction. Peter had spoken about the Pafuri rest stop some ten kilometers distant; maybe he’d recall the comment and head that way. I stifled a sob. Peter would find me. He had to. He was an expert in the bush. Maybe if I just waited, he’d stumble upon me. So I delayed for nearly an hour.

Finally, the need to relieve myself forced me from my awkward perch. I hung my bag on a nearby branch and, grabbing one of the small tissues, crept down the gray, mottled trunk. Bright orange dragonflies flitted near the bank. In a false sense of modesty, I crouched in the bushes while glancing around jerkily. I had just finished when something ran past my trainers. I leaped up, letting out a sharp squeak. A small, yellow-tinged ground squirrel scurried through the bush. Jeez, one tiny little rodent and I was nearly plunged into cardiac arrest!

Disgusted, I pocketed the remaining tissues and returned to the upper branches, realizing I needed to formulate a plan. Help was foremost. If I could get back to the road, a car would certainly pass by. I’d alert the compassionate inhabitants that my companion was missing and they’d return me to Crooks’ Corner, where Peter likely waited.

My stomach growled and I contemplated eating one of the energy bars and apples. Well, why not? If I was lucky I’d find the main road and flag down a passing vehicle within an hour or so; therefore, after little deliberation, I gave myself permission to eat. After devouring the bar and tossing the core onto the ant-laden ground, still hungry, I demolished half of the first bag of peanuts as well, washing them down with a huge swig of water.

Feeling immensely better, I took time to mourn the fact that I hadn’t managed to somehow retain the map. How was I supposed to find Peter or Crooks’ Corner without one? I closed my eyes and sought to visualize the direction in which I’d traveled.

Crooks’ Corner is located as far northeast as the road will go. To get there we’d wound through the thick tropical forest upon the eastern road overlooking the Luvuvhu River before turning north. Crooks’ Corner stands only three kilometers off the road. After a few moments of contemplation I realized that all I really needed to do was stay on this side of the Limpopo River and head north. I figured we’d driven perhaps fifteen minutes on the service road and I’d run at least twenty. If I followed the river, I estimated that within two hours I’d reach the wide, circular lookout point designating Crooks’ Corner. I bowed my head and sent up a small prayer, asking my Maker to guide me to Peter and safety.

I slipped down the tree once again and, removing the Swiss army knife, slipped it into my pocket. It’s amazing what a false sense of security the small red knife provided me. As an afterthought, I picked up a fist-sized stone in my right hand, ready to fling it at any beast who dared approach. I had a momentary vision of myself, a yellow-eyed lion slinking ever closer as I let loose a lethal stone, bouncing it squarely off her nose. The poor, bloodied beast would deliver one pained, catlike whimper and bound off, never to be heard of again. I grinned to myself. Everyone must be allowed Walter Mitty dreams, even a coward like me.

With the sound of the sluggish river gurgling on my left and the warmth of the sun upon my shoulders, it was probably a beautiful day. Unfortunately, I felt too anxious and desperate to appreciate anything but my need to find the road and Peter. The only wildlife seemed to be a countless array of birds I could not name or number. I plodded on for nearly forty minutes, my confidence rising. Finally, needing a breather, I lowered my aching body down upon a log and examined the embankment paralleling the river. The Limpopo is a leisurely watercourse, meandering half-heartedly through the brush and flood pan. However, I knew from my reading that its gentle appearance can be deceiving. During February 2000, pounding summer rains drenched Southern Africa and swelled the river to monstrous levels, flooding vast areas of Mozambique and killing thousands.

It felt good to rest, and I spent a few minutes observing a bright, double-winged flying insect hovering near me. A low, moaning grunt from behind caused me to jump in alarm from my makeshift bench. The crocodile was enormous, measuring at least eight feet long. He rested, his long, yellowish tail half-submerged in the water, and eyed me, those gleaming orbs atop his head unblinking and unfeeling. Thank God, the log was positioned between him and me! With a start I realized he wasn’t the only Nile crocodile present; at least half a dozen others basked upon the wet sand. How careless I’d been. This was crocodile territory. Hadn’t Peter told me how they routinely killed scores of Africans each year?

I edged slowly away from the reptile-infested river, facing a dilemma. Dare I continue following the shoreline, or should I climb the embankment in an effort to distance myself from the hungry crocs? But, I argued with myself, who knew what even more foul forms of wildlife lurked in the dense underbrush? The ancient reptile took an elevated step toward me, perched upon short bowed legs. His steady advance decided me. I scrambled up the steep bank, the shrubs tearing at my jeans and backpack. A narrow animal trail opened to my right, grass beaten down by countless creatures’ pilgrimages to the water. This seemed the likely choice. It would prove a fair sight easier going than tromping through the high grass. I was hopeful the trail would remain parallel to the river.

I followed the narrow ribbon of trail for a quarter of a mile, scanning the dense brush continually for both predators and Peter, until I tripped and banged my knees. It just wasn’t possible to watch the bush and the path at the same time. Staggering to my feet, I set off again, pausing once to rub my aching kneecaps.

I was almost as surprised as they when I stumbled upon a pair of waterbuck whose long, gray, shaggy coats covered sturdy bodies emblazoned with the telltale white rings upon their bottoms. The couple whirled, allowing me a wonderful view of their toilet-seat rears as they bounded through the foliage. At least these creatures were harmless. I concentrated on moving more cautiously and quietly, realizing I’d been lucky so far. Unfortunately, my lack of stealth made it impossible for me to move silently, no matter how hard I tried. After another five minutes, the well-worn trail veered inland and away from the river, to which I knew I had to keep if I were to ever find my way back to Crooks’ Corner and Peter. I paused by large, grayish-white boulders jetting out over the river, hedged by shiny-leafed shrubs.

I glanced at my watch. It was almost half past two. In winter, darkness completely cloaks Southern Africa by six in the evening. If I continued following the animal track, I would move further back into Mozambique, so my only choice was to cross the river and return to the South African side of Kruger. I hesitated, not wishing to venture anywhere near where the hijackers had waylaid me. Perhaps there were roads on the Mozambican side. No, I chided myself. Kruger had countless tourists traveling its well-maintained roads. My best chance lay within its boundaries, not in the less-managed wilds of Mozambique.

I cautiously ventured down onto the sandbank again, a pair of hammer-headed birds scurrying away at my approach. I strained my neck searching for crocs, though none lay lazily upon nearby sandbars. I stood for a moment and pondered. Should I leisurely pick my way across the wide, shallow river, or simply tear across in hopes of thwarting any attack by crocodiles or other predators? I inhaled deeply, readjusted my pack, and chose the latter.

The river, only knee-height, dampened my dirty jeans as I raced across its wide gulf. I stumbled once, my feet dragging in the wet sand. A snowy bird flapped angrily as it rose above the shallow water, but I ignored her, sprinting until dry soil crunched beneath my feet. Scrambling up the bank, I paused atop a boulder to catch my breath. Unfortunately, this side looked identical to the other. It was imperative that I find the sandy track the hijackers had used. As I descended the boulder, I decided that if I heard the approach of any vehicle, I’d duck behind a shrub until I determined whether the drivers were friend or foe.

Crossing my fingers, I headed directly west and stumbled upon the road within three minutes. A miracle! Now, if I just followed the track, where recent tire impressions clearly disturbed the dry sand, I should make it to Crooks’ Corner within an hour. My heart swelled and feeling almost gleeful, I managed a short fantasy about Peter, envisioning myself encircled by enthralled park rangers as he proudly lifted his sandy head, his dusky eyes filled with joy, while I recounted my thrilling tale of escape and survival.

It hit me suddenly that I wanted Peter to believe me competent and intelligent. That daydream moved me into action. Halting abruptly, I removed my small notebook and wrote down the bakkie’s license plate number before I forgot it. HCJ 805 NW. I also scribbled a brief description of the white van with its banged-up rear fender, as well as a clear description of my captors. I went on to describe my dusty, rented jeep and everything that had been left inside it. Unfortunately, I had less luck remembering the rental’s license plate number than that of my kidnappers.

I shoved the small notepad back into my backpack and took a long drink of water before setting off at a brisk jog. Breathless within ten minutes, I slowed down, deciding a swift walk wouldn’t tax my endurance as much as a run. As long as I made it to the main road within the hour, I would be just fine.

A strange, rasping sound startled me from my thoughts and I swung my eyes upward. Rearing up before me, not more than two yards distant, its long, charcoal body stretching across the entire expanse of the sandy track, loomed every hiker’s nightmare. The snake lifted a coffin-shaped head, its curved mouth fixed in an odd perpetual smile. I screamed as the serpent turned, rearing at least four feet in the air, its open mouth, black as night, hissing in warning. The only identification I could make through my panic was this was definitely not a cobra and must measure at least ten feet long.

I screeched and plunged off the dirt road, certain I heard the swish of the snake’s heavy body pursuing me into the brush. The rasping noise of its scales scraped the dirt directly behind me and I shrieked again. A large troop of baboons hooted and scattered into the trees as I tore past, too preoccupied to do little more than note their presence. I ran for what seemed ages, the rough scraping noise of the massive serpent’s scales indicating it remained right at my heels, intent on biting me at all costs.

Now, how could any snake be that fast and that persistent, a more rational mind might have wondered? But where snakes were concerned, I didn’t possess a single cogent bone in my body. I ran for at least a mile before a strange sort of mocking awareness crept over me. If I slowed (as I was rapidly tiring), the swishing noise slowed; if I speeded up, it speeded up too, sounding so close the serpent had to be practically upon me. I halted suddenly and the rasping noise of the snake’s scales ceased entirely. I stumbled a few paces in bewilderment before realizing dumbly that the pursuing noise I’d identified as belonging to the smiling snake as it surged against the ground was nothing more than my denim-clad legs rubbing against each other. Mortified, I paused by a thorny tree and cursed heartily, having proven beyond a shadow of a doubt what a citified fool I was! Thank God Peter hadn’t seen my frenzied retreat. The thought of what he’d think forced tears into my eyes.

The sweat poured off my face, and my back felt bruised from the pack’s violent banging against my spine. Humiliation nearly overwhelmed me, but it took quite a while for an even worse fact to sink in. In my frantic plunge through the dense undergrowth of the veldt, I’d lost the road entirely. Again disoriented, I spent the next hour frantically searching for the rough track the hijackers had used to steal the jeep. Though I tried to retrace my steps east toward the river, I couldn’t, for the life of me, relocate the wide Limpopo. The thieves’ tire imprints had been fresh in the dry sand and I consoled myself with the fact that since I’d found them once, I could surely do so again. But, as the minutes ticked rapidly toward sundown, my terror increased. I wandered half-dazed through the bush until finally, sweating and fatigued, I sank down upon a flaky stump, acknowledging for the first time that I was thoroughly and completely lost; an American idiot in paradise with my savior lover nowhere to be found.