Chad laughed, a more sincere chuckle, “Give it up, Peter. Stop being a condescending, patronizing ass! God! I don’t want you to give a flip about what’s important to me, okay?”
Peter smiled and nodded. “You’re right. I’ll live my life, eh? Really, I don’t want to keep pushing you away. I don’t.”
“Thanks. I know it’s important to you. Maybe I should be more sensitive or whatever, but shit, Peter! Just accept me as I am, bru, and I’ll try to do the same.”
Peter had done what he could to soothe his soul and make amends, and now he was desperate to ease the tension. “So we’re cool now, right? I think we should we give each other a hug – a long, sappy, heal-everything hug.”
“Ag sis, man! You are getting too girly.”
“So, what are you telling Sarah?”
“None of your business,” Chad stated furtively. “And you? What are you writing to Cindy? You know she’s planning on marrying you, right?”
“Riggght,” Peter said with skewed lips and squinted eyes, not certain if Chad was being serious or not.
Chad looked intently at Peter. “She’s never told you, has she? Sarah says Cindy has this dream, a recurring dream, that she would marry an American and move to the States. She’s got plans for you, mate.”
“You’re not serious! That’s not true. She can’t possibly be—”
“Oh it’s true all right. God’s honor. Sarah thought she was an idiot when she rambled on and on about those dreams, but then you came along. How ’bout that? And she certainly looooves you, bru. You’re her dream boat – literally.”
“Blast! I gotta write her.” Peter put his pen to the light blue paper and began to write...
Cindy,
I have been missing you. It’s pretty wild up here. Of course, you’ve been up here and know the crazy stuff that goes on, but things have been fine. We’ve had a great time with Simon’s brother and his family.
Well, I really need to let you know what is going on inside me, so here goes. I really have appreciated our friendship. It has been great. I’m thankful for it and don’t know what I would have done without you. But I feel bad about something. I’m afraid maybe I let you think it could be more than a good – no, great – friendship. I don’t know how to say what I need to – so I’ll just say it as plain as I can and hope it makes sense and you understand things.
I love you lots, but it could never be marriage-type stuff. As great as our friendship is, it could never be more than that. I know I should have probably said this sooner and in person, but I needed to make sure you don’t get the idea that ... well, you know, it could be anymore that what it is. It could never be anything more serious, Cindy. And maybe it’s too serious now.
You’ll probably be mad I’m putting this in a letter. I know it’s something we should have talked about a long time ago. I’m sorry it’s like this and that I’m so far away. I hope you don’t hate me and that we can still be good friends.
I know you might feel you’ve been led on. Please believe me when I say I never meant to. I will always cherish our times together and the friendship we have. Your friendship means so much to me, and I hope that never changes.
We’ll hitchhike back to Bulawayo and then go up to Victoria Falls for a few days and will hopefully be back in South Africa in another week or so. I do want to see you. But if don’t, I will understand.
Much love,
Pete
Chad’s paper was a light shade of yellow, and he pressed the blue ink pen to it as he wrote...
Sarah, my dear, my love,
I am sorry for that last time we were together. I didn’t want to leave things as we did. Let me say clearly that I appreciate your dad. I care about him and know he is a good man, a good father. I know how much he loves you and Lisa. I do hate his drinking. I hate what it does to him and to you and your mom. I know you hate that too. Sarah, I admire your love for him. I admire that you and your mom do not give up on him. For what it’s worth, I will say it again – I am truly sorry for what happened at Kruger that last night. There is no excuse for what happened, I know. I am sorry, my love.
I do, I do, I do love you – more than anything. I am not well polished with romantic prose, so I will keep it simple. Sarah, you are who I want, who I need, who I love.
I am afraid you are pushing me away for the wrong reasons. I may be wrong, but I feel you’re pushing me away because you’re afraid of love. I do not believe this stuff about you not loving me enough. I think you are afraid you love me too much. Hell, I just don’t want to lose you, no matter the reason.
I hope that I will be back in a week, and I will keep pursuing you until you convince me that I am not the one who can make you happy for the rest of your life!
I love you terribly.
I miss you terribly.
You’re my one and only,
Chad
CHAPTER 24
The Smoke That Thunders
They waited for the nonstop Bulawayo-Victoria Falls bus. A stark white bus, with no markings announcing its destination, pulled up to the bus stop.
“That’s it. Hurry up,” Peter said.
Chad caught Peter’s arm. “No, that’s a delivery van of some sort. That’s not a bus.”
They waited for a proper bus to pull up.
Peter pointed and said, “You’re wrong. Look.”
People who looked like tourists were boarding the white bus.
Peter and Chad boarded last. Long benches lined both sides of the bus, and at the back of the vehicle were two rows of seats. Peter and Chad took their seats on the bench seat behind the driver.
They shared the five-and-a-half-hour, 420-kilometer journey with eight other individuals. On the back row, a man in a dark pinstriped suit had already busied himself reading a morning paper. He had carefully placed his briefcase on the seat, obviously hoping no one would disturb his solitude. In front of them sat a middle aged German couple, both with wire-rimmed glasses. They wore polite smiles that refused to wane. Three bearded and emaciated Americans sat on the passenger side bench-seat. They talked incessantly and loudly, recounting exaggerated tales of hitchhiking up from Botswana. A young South African English-speaking couple with shiny new rings nestled together on the bench seat where Chad and Peter had settled.
The bus left Bulawayo at exactly one-thirty p.m., traveled for fifteen minutes, and then pulled off the highway into a lay-by. There, it waited.
The businessman looked at his watch for a third time and muttered, “Damn it all!”
The others looked at him, and Chad asked if he knew what was going on.
“We’re waiting for the bloody escort. They’re late. They’re always late when I’ve got a meeting to make.”
Chad nodded and offered an understanding look, though he was thinking, What an arrogant wannabe!
The German gentleman turned his head back and asked, “Escort? What kind of escort?”
“Army. It’s dangerous to the north. Terrorists are moving about those areas. They would love to hit a soft target like a bus full of tourists. They would relish such a strike.” He looked around at his fellow travelers as he said it, seemingly enjoying seeing eyes fill with fear. When he noticed the escort finally arriving, he said, “There they are. About bloody time.”
Two white pickup trucks arrived; one took its position in front of the bus, and the other pulled behind. Two Black soldiers manned each machinegun-laden truck.
With her impeccable smile fading, the German woman said, “Is this safe? Are you sure it is safe?”
“Of course it is. You need not worry, dear,” her husband said, maintaining his optimistic grin. He then he put his arm around her shoulder and began consoling his worried spouse in German.
The businessman leaned forward and said, “Oh, we’re safe now. Nothing to worry about. There is enough firepower in those guns to wipe out a platoon. The terrs see those beauties and cry like soiled babies as they scatter back into the bush.” With
that, he returned to reading his newspaper.
“Fifty miles from Victoria Falls. That’s what the paper said yesterday. Attacks on two farms fifty miles from there. And an attack near Lupane, a church or something, a few days ago,” said the young South African man. His bride quickly silenced him with a stern look.
The pickup truck to the rear honked its horn, and the undersized bus pulled back onto the highway flanked by its assigned guardians, who stood with machineguns in hand dutifully searching for any movement in the bushveld that lined the highway.
One of the bearded Americans nonchalantly blurted out, “You know any bullets would go clean through this tin can! They could shoot us all in the backs before we knew what hit us.”
His friend promptly agreed with him. “Yeah, that’d be the way to go. That’s what I’d want – to never know what hit me.”
The third friend quickly retorted, “What fun would that be?”
The other laughed and said, “With our luck, it’d hit you square in the back and sever your spinal cord, and we’d have to wheel you around for the rest of our trip.”
The remaining travelers looked at the three brash Americans with accusing looks, which did nothing to deter them from discussing what it might be like to get a bullet in one’s spine.
Peter and Chad looked at each other with expressions conveying their silent apprehension. Then Chad loudly blurted out, “A mile long. The falls are a mile long. That’s incredible. Has anyone ever been there before?”
The conversation changed as the group their shared anticipation of experiencing one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World. None had been there before except the loud-mouthed businessman, who was pleased to share his impression of the falls, informing them about the best places to stay and eat and ways to avoid swindlers and conmen. “Don’t worry about any of those bogus guided tours. Venture out and explore it on your own. That’s the only way to experience the falls.”
The bushveld became denser the further north they went. Trees lining the highway thickened, and the underbrush became increasingly lush, green, and thick, providing ample coverage for determined terrorists. However, no one talked further about attacks, about terrorists, or about bullets in the spine. Instead, they focused on the wonders of Victoria Falls and their upcoming adventures. They arrived safely at five-fifteen p.m.
***
The Livingston Motel, located half a mile from the Falls, was within easy walking distance. Densely wooded landscape, accentuated by lush underbrush and wild flowers, surrounded the motel. The accommodation itself proved to be comfortable despite its simplicity: there were two single beds, a sink, a small fridge in the corner, bare walls, and a concrete floor. Toilets and showers were fifty paces across a modest car park. Just outside the door, a small patio area with two wooden rockers and a built-in barbeque added some ambiance. Sitting at just the right angle in the chairs
Chad and Peter plopped down in the rocking chairs. Moving the chairs to just the right angle afforded a view of the permanent cloud of mist that marks the falls. As well, they could hear the roar of the cascading water, providing faint and unending background noise. From half a mile away they could see and hear why the natives called it Mosi-oa-Tunya, ‘The Smoke that Thunders.’
Chad read from a brochure left in their motel room. “’The majesty of this great wonder evokes awe and demands reverence. The magnitude of Victoria Falls power arouses a quiet fear – a fear of the absolute authority that nature yields.’” Chad jumped and said, “Can’t wait. Let’s go.” They headed off to explore the area.
Within 100 meters of the Falls, the vegetation thickens. A little farther and one is engulfed by a jungle, which is fueled by the never-ending spray of the falls. At twenty meters, it morphs into a virtual rainforest overwhelmed with a rich variety of trees, brush, vines, and fauna. The area surrounding Victoria Falls nurtures several hundred types of trees and plants rarely seen in other parts of Africa. All who venture close enough to the falls enjoy a drenching by the eternal upward rain produced by a thousand tons of water plunging over the falls every second.
Hurrying before dark, Chad and Peter made their way down a well-used path and came to the northern end of the Falls. Standing a meter from the edge, they gazed over the rim. They stood speechless for several minutes before Peter whispered, “This is more amazing than I could have imagined. Too much for words. Just ... just amazing.”
“An adrenaline rush as good as any. As good as sex,” Chad whispered back.
They returned to their motel and enjoyed peanut butter and jam sandwiches. Then, with hot tea in hand, they sat in the rocking chairs and listened to the thundering mist as they reflected on the splendor of one of Africa’s greatest gifts.
CHAPTER 25
Kebo
The following morning, they set off to explore deeper and further. They trekked around the perimeter of the Falls, heading south and east, working their way toward the railroad bridge that crosses the Zambezi River into Zambia.
With the vegetation closing in with each step, Peter blurted out a question he had been mulling over, “What do you think we’re more likely to run into up here, a terrorist or a wild animal? A terr or a crocodile? Or worse, a black mamba?”
“More likely a deadly animal. That is scary for sure. There’re no terrorists around here. They would have told us if there were, but I don’t want to think about either.”
They followed the rugged rim of the Falls, often walking a meter or less from its edge. They stopped and took pictures of the Zambian bridge, which was about a kilometer away. They trudged through another drenching from the never-ending spray, came to a clearing, and took more photos, capturing a train crossing over the bridge.
Time seemed to stop as they sat and watched the rushing water plunging down the 100-meter gorge, both were mesmerized by the majesty and power before their eyes.
Peter broke their quiet meditation. “Good God! It’s well past noon. No wonder my stomach’s complaining. Let’s get back and get some lunch. And I don’t want to get drenched again. We should walk further in from the Falls. That path over there should be a quicker way back to the motel.”
“Fine,” Chad said.
They ventured down a path less traveled; it disappeared quickly as the fauna, trees, and undergrowth thickened.
Peter’s voice became louder with each sentence. “I don’t know about this. Should we turn back? Why the hell didn’t we bring some lunch anyway? How many times, huh? How many times did I say, ‘We should take something to eat’? But no... You said, ‘Let’s get going. We’ll just come back for lunch.’ How many—”
“God! It’s too late now. Shut up about it. It’s fine. Just keep going. I think there’s a clearing ahead. This was your idea, remember.”
The jungle began to smother them. Complaints grew more heated and more anxious. Peter was about to declare they should turn around when they saw two young baboons. The inquisitive primates stared at them with large, questioning eyes. Peter slowly pulled out his Kodak and handed it to Chad. He whispered, “We’ve gotta get this.”
Peter edged nearer, holding out his hand. Both tiny baboons reached out to touch his fingers. As they did, Chad took the picture and then handed the camera to Peter as he eased away. Chad took two steps toward the young baboons. At that moment, out of the thick vegetation, a bloodcurdlingly roar pierced their eardrums, and a large baboon swooped toward Peter and slapped him on the head. Another roar exploded from the depths of the patriarch’s lungs as he raised both arms and prepared to strike again. At the same moment, two other adult baboons appeared bearing large, sharp, angry teeth, declaring an attack was imminent.
Chad darted toward a stunned Peter, grabbed his wrist, and yanked him away from the next blow. The two humans backed slowly away from the irate beasts. At once, both turned and darted toward the rough brush, which fought against them with its own anger; every stride produced tears, scratches, and cuts. After ten minutes (which seemed like
sixty), they stopped. The roars had faded; the baboons had made their point and did not bother to elaborate further.
Peter bent over and grabbed his knees. Chad clasped his hands on his head. Both were panting, and their heart rates would not slow down. After several minutes, when their panic had subsided, both laughed with loud, husky laughter that released tension and brought their adrenaline back down to a tolerable level.
After calm returned, Peter looked around. He was unable to see more than two meters in any direction. “My God! Which way back?”
“I have no idea.” Chad turned 360 degrees as he rubbed his temples. He finally pointed and said, “We came out that way. No, wait ... I don’t know. I have no idea which way we came from. Which way is which? Hell’s bells!”
Peter’s words came out quickly. “God! What do we do? I can’t even see the sun. Where’s west? I can hear the water, but holy crap! Which way is it?”
“I think it’s this way. Come on. Let’s just go this way for a while. We should be able to tell if we’re getting closer.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
“You got a better idea?”
Peter followed behind Chad through the thick brush. Chad listened, hoping the thunder of the Falls would become more distinct, but it did not. Fifteen minutes later, he realized the Falls’ eternal roar sounded even fainter.
Peter shouted out, “Good God! We are truly and utterly lost!”
Chad ignored the outcry and continued moving through the jungle. After another ten minutes of fighting the brush in an unknown direction, Chad stopped. “Wait! You hear that? Listen! Voices! Over there. Thank God!”
Before Chad could call out, two men appeared from the bush, pointing AK 47s at their heads. One of them, with a thick graying beard, pointed to his younger companion and barked a succinct order in Ndebele. He waved the barrel of his fierce rifle, indicating they were to follow the young man, who appeared to be no more than sixteen. The young boy looked quickly at the two Americans; his eyes were hollow, emotionless. He looked forward and began swinging a machete wildly. They followed with an AK 47 pointed at their backs.
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