by Bear Grylls
‘Which type of crocodile?’ Ganan asked.
‘Saltie,’ Brihony told him. ‘What else?’
Barega came forward to where they sat, one hand on the side of the boat to steady himself. Like Beck, he was studying the water in front of them. ‘I don’t see it.’
‘That’s the point,’ she replied with tight-lipped patience. ‘You don’t see the salties. They see you.’
Although ‘saltie’ was short for saltwater crocodile, Beck knew that these creatures could just as easily live in fresh water like this river. And then he saw it.
It wasn’t much – just the slightest disturbance in the water ahead. It could have been the tip of a log floating just beneath the surface – two black blobs about thirty centimetres apart. They were the crocodile’s eyes. The rest of it was invisible. Even though it could only have been a few centimetres beneath the surface, there was no sign of the long, powerful reptilian body.
Brihony had to point it out to Barega, who showed it to Ganan, who carefully steered the boat around it.
‘Doesn’t look too aggressive,’ Barega commented.
Brihony smiled. ‘They never do, until they launch an attack. And by then it’s usually too late . . .’
‘How big do they get?’ Ganan asked.
‘About five metres long.’ Brihony’s voice grew warmer as she talked about a subject close to her heart. ‘But they can reach six or even seven and weigh four hundred and fifty kilos.’
Beck whistled. Five metres of pure killing machine lurked beneath the water. He had seen them before in the wild and never ceased to be amazed. But wherever they were in the world, and however big, crocodiles tended to have similar habits. They had been around since the age of the dinosaurs, and had used all that time to perfect their predatory nature. They were immensely strong, and they could go a long time without eating. They were cunning and patient. Looking at a croc in a concrete pen in a zoo, you might not see that they were masters of camouflage. It was easier to believe when you were trying to spot one in dark brown croc-coloured water.
The eyes of the saltie disappeared behind them, though Beck was sure it was watching them until they were out of sight.
‘Should have brought a gun,’ Ganan muttered.
Brihony swung round. ‘How can you say that? What have they ever done to you?’
‘Nothing,’ he replied with a leer, ‘and I intend to keep it that way.’
‘Crocs eat what they need. They take weak and sick animals—’
‘You mean, the ones who don’t get out of the way in time?’
‘Exactly! They’re part of the environment. Other animals can co-exist with them just fine. All except stupid humans. There’s huge pressure on the population. Poachers are after them because saltie hides are worth more than any other type, and no one cares because as far as everyone else is concerned, they’re just mindless killers.’
Ganan was grinning, and Beck realized with irritation that he had deliberately wound Brihony up just to get a reaction.
But it was Barega who rebuked him. ‘All right, Ganan, cut it out!’
Suddenly Beck turned and saw that the boat was heading straight for the shore. ‘Look out!’
Ganan had been enjoying watching Brihony lose her cool so much that he had forgotten he was steering. He pulled on the tiller, and the boat swung round again to head back towards the middle of the channel.
As he did so, Barega almost fell over the side. ‘Hey, watch it!’
‘Sorry,’ Ganan muttered.
The boat resumed its course. Beck settled down next to Brihony again and rolled his eyes. ‘And it’s not like they attack boats anyway!’
Brihony paused before answering. ‘Not often.’
‘Huh?’
‘They don’t attack boats often.’
Ganan stared. ‘So they do attack boats?’
‘It’s not the boats they’re after – it’s the meat steering them. And if they’re hungry and you give them an opportunity, they will take you. And it’s not a nice way to go. Trust me.’
Everyone took turns as the boat went on, either resting or steering or sitting in the bows to keep a lookout. In the dark water it would be easy to miss an obstacle beneath the surface until it was too late. It would do the boat no good at all to hit a hidden log; and if the log turned out to be a crocodile . . .
For food they munched on dried fruit bars washed down with precious water. They would have a proper meal at the end of the day, but for now too much food would only dehydrate them. Beck made sure everyone kept drinking regularly, even when Barega and Ganan said they weren’t thirsty.
‘You need one and a half litres per day even when you’re just sitting still,’ he said. ‘When you’re moving on foot in this heat, you need that per hour. So just be grateful the boat’s doing all the hard work – for the time being.’
Ganan had a map but preferred to navigate by GPS. Beck kept one eye on the map too, matching the marked bends and curves to the reality of the landscape around them. The map showed that they were on the edges of Jungun territory – but it would be another few hours before they were near where Pindari was likely to be.
There were still no signs of any other humans, but as the hours passed they saw wildlife a-plenty. Pointing it all out to Beck, Brihony had soon completely forgotten their disagreement.
Some sleek green birds flew overhead in formation like a squadron of space fighters. Their bodies were shaped like arrowheads with a long, spearlike beak at the end.
‘Bee-eaters,’ Brihony told him.
Beck watched and marvelled at the way they circled together, never colliding, always knowing exactly where other members of the flock were as they swooped and fed on insects too small for him to see.
Three or four kangaroos were sheltering at the base of a cliff. They took exception to the echoes of the boat’s engine and hopped away to a safe distance. They seemed to expend no energy at all, but each leap covered a couple of metres.
At one point they passed a pair of dingoes – wild dogs with ginger fur that was short and stiff, and always made Beck think of a crew-cut. Their heads were lowered as they lapped the water but they watched the boat, ears pricked suspiciously, until it had gone by. Further up the same beach, a monitor lizard plodded along the stones. It walked like a robot, one stiff leg in front of the other, oblivious to anyone or anything that didn’t disturb it. Beck didn’t doubt the dingoes could have given it a hard time if they felt hungry – but then, it would have given them a hard time back. Wildlife in the Outback, like everywhere else, lived in equilibrium. Everything busy just surviving.
But seeing the dingoes made Beck think. They usually avoided the heat of the day, only coming out at dawn and dusk. He glanced up. The sun was already below the edges of the river gorge. He checked his watch, and cursed himself. He was out of practice. He was meant to be the expedition’s Outback expert and he had forgotten the simple fact that when you were this close to the equator, the sun went down very quickly. They had little more than half an hour of daylight left.
‘We should call it a day,’ he said.
Ganan grunted. Everyone had taken their turn at the tiller as the day went on, but for now he was back in charge. ‘We’ve a couple more hours of daylight. We should keep going.’
‘Sure there’s daylight,’ Beck pointed out, ‘but we need what’s left of it to set up camp. And down here it’s going to get dark sooner.’
Ganan shrugged. ‘We’ve got GPS. The screen lights up.’
Beck kept a hold on his temper. ‘GPS doesn’t show hidden sandbanks, or rocks, or logs, or crocodiles. It’s dangerous to go on. Just trust me, please.’
Barega had been in the front of the boat. Now he came back to join them. ‘Hey, what’s happening?’
Beck and Ganan spoke simultaneously:
‘He won’t pull over—’
‘Beck doesn’t want to go on—’
‘Oh, for crying out loud!’ Brihony exclaimed. ‘How about a c
ompromise? Say, we go on for half an hour?’
Beck shook his head. ‘Even half an hour will make it too dark . . .’ And then he realized that all four of them were clustered together at the back of the boat. He looked from one to the other.
‘Hey, who’s keeping a lookout?’
There was a crunch and a smash, and the boat lurched. Barega staggered and fell against Ganan. Ganan fell against the tiller and the throttle, so that the engine suddenly roared and the boat turned at full speed. It was like having the ground pulled from under your feet. Beck and Brihony didn’t have a chance. With their arms waving frantically, trying to catch hold of thin air, they toppled backwards over the side and into the water.
Chapter 12
The river closed over Beck’s head. Bubbles and engine noise roared in his ears. He lunged furiously for the surface and emerged into the air. Water streamed down his face and plastered his hair over his eyes.
Brihony was just breaking the surface in a fury of splashes. A couple of metres away, the log that they had smashed into swirled gently in the current. The boat still lurched about, heading towards the other bank. The men were desperately trying to reach the throttle.
Beck had one thing on his mind: crocodiles. He looked around. The nearest bank was about twenty metres away.
‘Swim for the shore,’ gasped Brihony.
‘No, no,’ Beck shouted. ‘Go underwater!’
‘Eh?’ She looked at him, aghast. ‘There could be crocs!’
‘Exactly! Trust me!’ And to make his point, he jack-knifed and dived down beneath the water.
For a second, Brihony stared at the ripples where Beck had been. Then she followed suit and struck out for the bank with a powerful breaststroke.
It was impossible to see anything. The engine made a dull throbbing beneath the surface, and the water was full of other noises – clicks and bubbles and whirrs. Beck tried not to imagine five metres of reptilian armour-plated teeth and claws heading towards him. He would never see it if it happened.
The water bottle around his neck was part empty and acted like a float, trying to pull him back up. The temptation to get rid of it was strong, but Beck knew that if he did so, he might just be condemning himself to a slower death.
He had to swim up to the surface to take a breath, and saw that he was only about a quarter of the way to the bank. He filled his lungs and ducked under again.
Beck thrust hard with his legs like a frog to push himself through the water. His boots were heavy and just slowed his feet down.
If a crocodile came for him, he wondered what it would feel like. Those jaws could snap his spine and crush his lungs in a second. Then the croc would drag him off to an underwater lair and pin his body under a rock or a fallen tree to rot. That was how they ate. Their jaws were powerful, but they couldn’t chew. They had to wait until the food was falling apart. Then they brought it to the surface and tilted their heads back so that the food literally fell into their stomachs. A bad way to go . . . He shook the image from his mind.
Beck suddenly felt the mud at the bottom of the river. Immediately he brought his legs down so that he could run out of the water. Brihony was right behind him, and they lurched towards the shore in a cloud of splashing spray. Once they were out of the water, they kept running until they were at the base of the sandstone cliff. Then they stopped to look back.
Across the river, Barega and Ganan finally had the boat under control, but it sat much lower in the water now. It listed so that the bow was almost submerged. They were reversing towards the opposite shore.
Beck leaned forward with his hands on his knees to catch his breath. Then he looked sideways at Brihony.
‘You see – underwater is safer!’
She gave a tired grin, still fighting to get her own breath back. ‘Makes sense. You’ve got more chance of being attacked on the surface. They’ll mistake you for a swimming animal. Underwater, they may decide you belong there and leave you alone.’
‘Exactly,’ grinned Beck. ‘Even a croc expert can learn a new trick sometimes!’
‘Well, that’s one trick I never, ever intend to use again!’ Brihony glanced across the river. ‘What are those two drongoes doing now?’
The boat had reached the far bank and the men had pulled it onto the shore. Barega was passing boxes of kit to Ganan.
Beck felt in his pocket for his phone and held it up. The screen was dead and water trickled out of the case. He grimaced. So much for that form of communication. He walked carefully back to the river bank. Brihony followed close behind, keeping an eye out for anything that looked like a ripple or a floating log but wasn’t.
Beck put his hands to his mouth and shouted, ‘What’s happening?’
His voice carried across the water and echoed back from the opposite cliff. The men came down to the water’s edge so that Ganan could call back.
‘Got a hole in the bow. We’re not going anywhere until it’s patched.’
‘And it’s all your own fault,’ Brihony muttered quietly.
Beck saw no point in dwelling on who was to blame for the accident. ‘How long?’ he called back.
‘We’ve got a repair kit. Says it takes twenty-four hours for the fibreglass to dry properly.’
‘We’re stuck here in the middle of Woop Woop for a day?’ Brihony protested.
Beck sighed. There was no use fighting the inevitable. He called back for the last time. ‘We’ll make a camp over here. We’ll climb up to higher ground, out of croc range. Talk to you in the morning.’
Brihony stared at him. ‘Make a camp? What with? All the supplies were in the boat!’
He couldn’t argue with that. He gave himself and Brihony a quick look over. His hat had come off in the accident – it would be floating down the river now. But he had his machete and water bottle. Brihony’s hat had been kept on by a strap around her neck, so she still had that. Apart from these things and the clothes they were wearing, they had nothing.
He sighed. And he had so been looking forward to a proper holiday, in proper beds, eating proper food, and not having to survive anything. ‘We can make do. Anyway, I thought you knew all about camping?’ Beck smiled.
‘Camping as in eating out of tins over a proper fire and sleeping in tents – why, sure!’ Brihony replied.
‘Well, this is almost the same. Only without the tins and tents.’
‘And the fire?’
‘Oh, the fire we can manage . . .’
‘Gee, well, why didn’t you say so?’
They climbed a narrow, sloping ridge of rock to the top of the bluff that overlooked the river. Dusk was drawing in and it was already almost too dark to see across now.
‘You were right to want to call a halt,’ Brihony admitted.
Beck just nodded as he looked about. A short way away a boab tree the size of a small house grew out of a small hollow in the rock. It had a thick, gnarly trunk many times wider than the spider-web of branches that grew out of the top. One of the branches had died and fallen off. Beck gave the tree a quick once-over. Unfortunately it didn’t have any fruit or leaves, which would both have been edible. Baby boab roots made excellent food, but they would probably break their teeth on this one’s roots.
So, no food. But between the base of the tree and the edges of the hollow, they would be out of the wind when they lay down.
‘OK, here’s our camp,’ Beck said. He dug his heel into the ground to mark the spot. ‘You hungry?’
‘Not really. I had a bar just before the accident.’
‘Yeah, me too.’
Brihony wrapped her arms around herself. ‘Could do with warming up, though. That fire you mentioned . . .?’
‘Coming right up.’ It perfectly fitted in with Beck’s own priorities. They would miss out on a proper dinner – the men had all the food – but neither of them would starve before morning, and he knew there would be plenty of food available if you knew where to look. Beck did know where to look, but he didn’t want to go dig
ging about in the dark. You had to see what you were digging. Australian snakes and spiders tended to be many times more poisonous than their cousins in the rest of the world.
Here in the Outback, animal life was scarce. A poisonous beastie wanted to be sure that once it had bitten its dinner, its dinner died promptly before it could get away.
Meanwhile, they were both still soaking wet, and the night would be getting cooler. So: food mattered less than fire right now.
Beck pointed at the fallen branch by the tree. ‘Get what you can off that. Small twigs, bigger bits of wood – anything that will burn. Give everything a good kick or a knock before you lift it up. You don’t know what else will be living in it, and could bite.’
‘And then I’ll come over to England,’ Brihony said, ‘and lecture you all about English wildlife. I have been camping once or twice before, Beck.’
‘Sorry.’ Beck grinned and passed her the machete. ‘Use this. I’ll get us some tinder.’
He did not have to look far in the fading light. From the boat he had already seen plenty of examples of what he was after: kapok bushes. They were taller than a man, but thin, so he could pull a trunk down to his level. The soft, furry leaves were shaped like maples – a cross between an outspread hand and the Ace of Spades. What he was after was nestled amongst them – the seed pods. They were like large nuts, oval and hard, the size of his hand. He gathered a bunch of them and carried them back to the camp in his shirt.
Brihony had made a small pile of wood. She had stripped the fallen branch as much as she could, and gathered other bits together as well. She had arranged the smaller pieces into a small tepee, and piled the larger pieces on top. That just left a space in the centre for what Beck had been fetching.
He spilled the pods out onto a piece of rock and knelt down. Brihony passed him the machete and, gripping it firmly, he brought the handle down hard on each one so that it split with a loud crack. Beck eased the tip of the blade into the opening and twisted so that the pod came apart.
