Stiletto Safari (10 page)

With as much authority as I could muster, I made my way toward my section of the dorm. All of the girls seemed to be lying on their beds, and a number of the little girls were already asleep, judging from their rhythmic breathing. While I could feel a number of curious black eyes boring into me, pleasingly no one tried to talk. I was dead on my feet and was in no mood for questions.

In the semidarkness I could make out a little crushed lump on the floor next to my bed. Gently, I nudged the lump with my foot. No movement. Depositing my armload of books on the shelf I bent down for a closer inspection. Gabi! I might have known. One of her little hands was clasped around the spiky heel of my snakeskin stilettos. Apparently our budding doctor also had a budding shoe fetish.

“Gabi,” I whispered. She didn’t stir. “Gabi, wake up, it’s time to go to bed.” Nothing. Reluctantly, I bent down and picked her up. She weighed next to nothing. I carried her in the direction of her bed. For the millionth time that day, I wondered what on earth I was doing here.

Finally, I was ready to stumble into bed. If I could be bothered, I’d have been moderately disgusted by the fact that I hadn’t showered or brushed my teeth, but I decided I was too tired to care. Within seconds of my head hitting the lumpy pillow, I was sound asleep.

In my dream I could feel something or someone touching my hair. For a moment I dreamed it was Nick, until I subconsciously remembered he was gone. Instead, I started to dream that a spider was climbing up my hair to my face. My eyes snapped open and my hands instinctively moved to protect my face.

Gabi’s face was inches from my own. Behind her I could see a cluster of little girls.

“Gabi, what on earth are you doing?” I screeched.

“We just wanted to look at your hair,” Gabi explained as if this was the most normal thing in the world to be doing. “We want to know if it’s real.”

The other little girls seemed to cringe back as if I was about to pounce on them.

“Gabi, of course it’s real. I told you that yesterday.” Exasperatedly, I tugged on my hair to prove my point, “See, real hair.”

Gabi turned back to the other girls and nodded her head. It seemed she was finally satisfied that I wasn’t wearing a wig.

Turning away from the girls, I looked at my watch. Shit, it was already six-thirty and I theoretically had a class to teach in an hour and a half.

“Gabi, where is the shower?” I asked irritably.

My self-appointed guide looked at me rather blankly.

“Come on, Gabi, I need to get ready quickly. Can you please just tell me where the shower is? I know it isn’t near the toilets because I looked yesterday.”

“Shower,” Gabi said the word slowly and carefully as if trying it out in her mouth for the first time.

“You know, to wash.”

“Ah,” Gabi’s face lit up in comprehension. “Come, come.”

Slipping a bathrobe over my pajamas (panties and a cami), I grabbed my flip-flops and toiletries and followed Gabi. The other girls looked on astonished—I’m not sure whether they were shocked by my lacy attire or my desire to wash.

Outside, the air was already warm. Shading my eyes I looked skyward. There were a few scattered wisps of fluffy, white cloud, but it looked like it was going to be a hot, clear day. Just perfect for my stuffy little classroom!

When I caught up with Gabi, she was standing behind the girls’ dormitory next to a rusty old tap. “Shower,” she said pointing.

“Gabi, you’ve got to be kidding. This isn’t a shower, it’s a tap.”

Resolutely, Gabi pointed at the tap. “Shower.” When I didn’t move, she turned on the tap, flicked her hair under the dribbling water for the briefest second, and said, “Look, see, all clean now.”

Shaking my head in disbelief, I went over to the tap. Surely, they couldn’t expect me to wash myself under some rusty tap in the middle of a schoolyard. Could they? I’d never even been camping before.

“Fine, Gabi, you can go now. And keep the other kids away—the last thing I want right now is an audience. Got it?”

“It’s breakfast time; no one will bother you now, Miss Zara.” Without a backward glance, Gabi scampered off in the direction of the meals area.

Gingerly, I turned on the decrepit-looking tap. Mud-brown water spurted out to be soaked up by the parched dusty red earth around my feet.

Full of indecision, I stood there for a few seconds hoping that the water would run clear. It didn’t. So apparently my choices were dirty hair or hair washed in dirty water. Which was worse?

Sighing, I bent down toward the tap and began wetting my hair. Once it was sufficiently wet, I stood up and reached into my toiletries bag for my Jurlique shampoo. Whenever possible, I always try to use organic products, and Jurlique is a bio-dynamic Australian brand. I’d never actually seen it sold in the States, but my mum unfailingly brought me a decent supply whenever she came to visit.

Massaging the jasmine-scented shampoo through my hair at least masked the mineral smell of the water. Rinsing the shampoo out, I applied the conditioner, which I let soak in while I splashed water and soap on the rest of my body.

“What on earth are you doing?” From out of nowhere a man’s voice boomed behind me.

Startled, I stood up and spun around. My wet, half-conditioned hair dripped down my camisole, making it translucent.

To my complete horror, standing in front of me with his arms crossed was none other than Hamish Walters.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Zara Hamilton.” He looked like he was trying to keep a straight face.

Idiotically, I just stood there as if frozen to the spot.

“Don’t you have showers where you come from?” Hamish asked, this time finding it impossible to suppress his laughter.

“What are you talking about? Of course we have showers,” I indignantly replied.

“So why are you standing in the middle of the schoolyard washing your hair when the showers are just over there?” he said, pointing to a little wooden building I hadn’t noticed.

Total embarrassment and humiliation set in. Suddenly I was acutely aware of my wet hair dripping down my cami. Self-consciously, I looked down to see the wet, lacy material clinging to my skin. Nothing was being left to the imagination.

“Here,” Hamish passed me my towel. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him, so I wasn’t quite sure where his eyes were, but it didn’t matter because I felt super self-conscious.

“I, um, I obviously didn’t know there was a shower block,” I stammered. “I asked and everything, but…”

“Let me guess: you asked Gabi?”

“How did you know that?”

Hamish laughed. “Ismail told me he’d left you in Gabi’s hands, and her dislike of showers is legendary. He’s always saying that he’ll pay anyone who can get Gabi to take a shower a hundred dollars.”

I cut Hamish off rudely. “Okay, so that explains Gabi, but what on earth are you doing here?” Now that my towel was wrapped protectively around me, I was feeling bolder.

“I tried to tell you at drinks that we had a lot in common, didn’t I?” Hamish arched his eyebrows in a self-satisfied manner that was particularly irritating. “I’m a wildlife biologist and I’m heading up the wildlife research program here. If you hadn’t stalked off on me the other night I would have explained. When Ismail told me you’d arrived, I thought I’d come up and see you.”

“Great,” I acidly replied. “Well, now that you’ve seen more of me than we both would have liked, I’m off to have a proper shower.” And with that I stalked off on Hamish for the second time in as many days. But this time I wasn’t able to sashay away in heels; rather, I had the indignity of flip-flopping my way through the dirt to the shower block.

Chapter 17

M

y teaching debut was a disaster. Due to my absolutely mortifying shower incident, I arrived late to class. Rather than sitting serenely at their desks, the kids were running amuck. A full-on soccer game seemed to be happening mid-classroom, with the blackboard apparently the goal.

I stood in the middle of the classroom and clapped my hands. “All right, everyone, sit down.” Most of the little girls did as requested, but the boys continued on with their game.

Seemingly oblivious to the fact that a “teacher” was in the room, a small boy kicked the soccer ball hard at the blackboard. It missed its mark and hit another little boy smack in the face. Blood poured from the little boy’s nose. At the sight of blood, the class instantly sobered and everyone hurried to their seats. Reluctantly, I attended to the injured boy. Blood makes me woozy and I was worried about passing out.

“Hold your nose like this, Frederik.” Gabi was beside me pinching the bridge of the little boy’s nose. I pulled some tissues out of my pocket and attempted to mop up the blood.

“Do you think his nose is broken, Gabi?” I asked, concerned and simultaneously wondering why I was asking an eight-year-old for medical advice.

Gabi grabbed the little boy’s nose and moved it quickly from side to side. Not surprisingly, this prompted a fresh bout of crying. “No, not broken,” Gabi authoritatively declared.

I wasn’t so sure, especially after the vigorous yank Gabi had just given it. Frederik’s nose looked pretty bad to me. “Gabi, why don’t you take Frederik down to the clinic and get Ismail to look at his nose?”

Apparently pleased to have such an important task, Gabi helped Frederik up, keeping her fingers clamped on his nose the whole time.

“Who kicked the ball?” I demanded as Gabi and Frederik made their way out of the classroom.

Silence.

I picked the ball off the floor. “Well, if no one is going to own up, the ball is mine.”

A few of the boys gasped, but still no one confessed.

“All right; today we will be reading. I want you to all hold up your reading books so I can see that you’ve got them.”

The children looked at me blankly.

“Where are your reading books?”

One girl put up her hand and timidly confessed that no one owned a book.

Improvising, I called the little girl up and got her to read from my book. She nervously stammered out the first paragraph; it was as bad as listening to someone learning to play the violin.

Finally, the lunch bell sounded. I’d never been so happy in my life. The morning had been torture. The only positive was that Gabi and Frederik had returned from the clinic and Frederik’s nose was not broken.

During the lunch break I tried to connect to the outside world on my iPad. Of course, there was no wi-fi. Hardly a surprise, but the disappointment was crushing. Being here was certainly giving me a healthy dose of perspective—my post-Nick, unemployed New York world really didn’t seem too bad after all!

Caught up in my own misery, I almost didn’t notice that a few of the girls were hovering near me. They were staring transfixed at my iPad. Feeling a bit sorry for them, I pulled up the latest Rhiana music video and turned the screen around so they could watch. When the sound came out they instinctively shrank back, but then crept closer. By the end of the song they were swaying and stamping their feet enthusiastically to the music.

And then an idea for surviving the next few weeks struck me. I was going to do this the easy way!

Glancing at my watch, I found I had ten minutes before class resumed. That would give me just enough time. Quickly I headed back to the dorm to grab a few things.

The children were a little more subdued post-lunch. Most of them were sitting on the cracked concrete floor in little groups. The classroom was stifling.

Clapping my hands together, I got the children to return to their desks. “This afternoon we’re studying geography. We’re going to be looking for countries on the map.” I pointed to the faded map of the world that was painted on the classroom wall. “We’re also going to play a game. The first person to put up their hand and show me the country I’m looking for will get to pick something out of this bag.”

The children looked expectantly toward the big bag next to my feet.

“So who can point to Australia?”

Gabi’s hand went straight up. When I nodded, she jumped up and correctly pointed to Australia. As promised, I let her choose something from the bag. Triumphantly she pulled out my snakeskin stilettos.

She tottered around the classroom in my heels. All the little kids clapped and cheered.

“The shoes Gabi is wearing were made in Italy. Who can show me Italy on the map?”

This time half the class put their hands high in the air. I picked a little boy, and after a bit of deliberation in front of the map he managed to pick Italy. He ran to the bag and picked out my oversized Prada sunglasses and put them on.

The rest of the afternoon breezed by; the kids were finally paying attention and even I was starting to enjoy myself.

When the school bell sounded the end of the day, I was surprised to see Ismail standing in the doorway of the classroom. All the kids gave him a high five as they left, and as Frederik went past, Ismail gave his nose a quick inspection. “Good,” he said, dismissing him with a pat on the back. Looking over at Gabi, he congratulated her: “Nice job, kiddo—excellent bandaging.”

I pretended not to hear the comment. I still wasn’t sure Gabi should be patching up patients.

“So, Zara, your teaching methods seem a little unorthodox,” Ismail said, grinning.

“Perhaps,” I shrugged my shoulders. “But who doesn’t need a bit of glamor in their life? Besides, I’ve discovered kids are like pets; they respond to rewards and praise. So anyway, are you here to borrow my sunnies or my shoes?” Both objects were in my hands and I waved them at Ismail before depositing them back in the bag.

“While I do like those shoes, I’m actually just checking (a) that you’re still alive and (b) whether you’re in need of a drink. You’re not expected back for dorm duties for a good couple of hours.”

A drink sounded exceptionally good, so I followed Ismail through the hot, baked landscape to the little house that was occupied by the medical volunteers.

The house was much like Nelson’s, only much less cluttered. Ismail shared the house with Amy, the other volunteer doctor. When we arrived, Amy was mixing drinks in the tiny kitchen. She was a pretty, petite blonde from the U.K. who looked to be about my age.