Storms Over Africa

by Beverley Harper

  They left the animal where it lay. Samson and Philamon would come back in the lorry and skin it, cut it up and load it onto the truck. The meat would be hung back at camp. The skin would be salted and laid out to dry. The horns, if anybody wanted them, would be boiled in an old oil drum of water. Tomorrow they would make biltong, strips of meat soaked in salt, vinegar, herbs and spices overnight, then hung to dry in the desert-like air until it formed a hard crust, leaving the centre moist and delicious. There would be buffalo steaks all round tonight.

  Steve was perched on the bonnet of the Land Rover taking pictures up through the trees. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘Greg got one,’ Richard replied.

  She felt a rush of sympathy for the animal but all she said was, ‘Mind if we stay another ten minutes? The light changes so much that each picture is completely different.’

  Samson and Philamon left immediately in the lorry. The animal had to be skinned quickly if the skin was to be saved. While Steve clicked off an exposure every minute, the rest gathered around the Land Rover smoking. Richard got the coffee and sandwiches from the back seat. ‘Damned fine shot,’ he said to Greg.

  ‘Don’t want it back.’

  ‘You can take the next one,’ he told Joseph.

  ‘Good.’

  Richard studied him. Most inexperienced hunters, when faced with a charge as they had been, would be showing some sign of fear or tension. Joseph appeared to be suffering from neither. ‘You say you’ve never hunted before?’

  ‘Not on safari like this. I potted a few things for meat during the war.’

  ‘You seemed to know what you were doing.’ The man was cool, he had to give him that. He readjusted his assessment of him as an adversary. The more he discovered about Joseph Tshuma, the more he realised he made a formidable enemy.

  Joseph shrugged. ‘Must be in the genes.’

  Steve jumped down and joined them. ‘I heard two shots.’

  ‘A good hunter only needs one,’ Richard told her. ‘Old Bwana Greg over here dropped that bull as clean as a whistle. The second shot was academic but it’s a precaution you should always take with dangerous game.’

  ‘I thought the rest of them might run this way.’ She poured coffee from the flask. ‘I had my camera ready but I didn’t see one.’

  ‘They instinctively run away from the danger. There was some heavy bush nearby and they disappeared into it,’ Greg said.

  ‘Poor things, they must be terrified.’

  ‘There’s been a terrible drought here,’ Greg replied kindly. ‘Game Department will know there are too many buffalo here, otherwise we’d not have been given a licence.’

  ‘We’d like to see their numbers reduced by a couple of hundred,’ Joseph confirmed. ‘The land can’t sustain them all.’

  ‘I know. I know,’ she said sadly. ‘But they must still be terrified. I feel for them, that’s all.’

  Richard wisely said nothing.

  They shared the coffee and sandwiches, standing on the dusty track, smelling the animals that had passed that way, listening to the birds and feeling the day warm rapidly as the sun rose and burned off the gentle dew and wiped the cool sepia tones from the sky. So quiet did they become, each one busy with their own thoughts, that a tiny Steenbok, no more than 45 centimetres tall, nearly stumbled over them as it emerged from the bush at the side of the road. It was halfway across the track, just in front of the vehicle, by the time it noticed them and it bounded away like a startled rabbit, its little tuft of a tail bobbing in its frantic dash for safety. It stopped briefly to look back at them before disappearing into the bush.

  On the way back to camp they saw a family of warthog make their busy way through the long grass, tails held perpendicular to their bodies, father in front, mother next, and three babies following. The babies were so small they were barely visible, only their skinny little tails sticking up through the grass as they trotted behind their parents. They paid no attention to the Land Rover, cutting through the bush towards their waterhole where they would enjoy a roll in the black, slimy mud which would keep their bodies cool during the heat of the day. ‘They’re good eating,’ Richard commented.

  ‘Will you shoot one?’ Steve hated the idea of breaking up what was so obviously a happy family unit.

  ‘We have enough meat,’ he said. ‘There’s no need.’

  And she realised that a good hunter was like all the other animals in the bush. He only took what he needed. Just because man was the most advanced animal, with technology on his side, did not make him any different to those he hunted. It just made him more efficient. She was finding she had no ethical problem with hunting for meat. Trophy hunting was another matter.

  David and Penny were sitting on camp chairs when they got back. David was reading a novel, Penny was staring fixedly at the river. She looked up. ‘How’d you go?’ Her eyes had a wild, unfocused look.

  Richard looked sharply at her. ‘Where did you stick your nose?’ he asked finally. ‘You’ve got powder or something on it.’

  She sniffed, then rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. ‘I was poking around the supplies tent,’ she lied. ‘I sneezed into the flour.’

  Joseph turned and walked rapidly to their tent. Penny, with an apologetic smile, rose and followed him. They all heard the raised voices but no-one could make out the cause of the argument, except Richard swore he heard Joseph saying angrily, ‘You silly little bitch.’ Joseph returned to the camp fire about twenty minutes later, having washed and changed, and offered no explanation for the heated exchange of words. Penny remained in the tent.

  Samson and Philamon returned in the lorry and, while Philamon worked on the buffalo meat, Samson prepared breakfast. Richard called Penny for breakfast but Joseph told him curtly that she was asleep so, reluctantly, he left her.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Steve asked. She was learning that the light in Africa was too harsh in the middle of the day for good photographs. To get the moodiness she preferred in her shots she needed the softer light of morning and evening.

  ‘We loaf around here. We can go for a game drive. We can play cards or read. Whatever you like,’ Richard said.

  ‘A pity we can’t swim in the river.’ She looked longingly at the cool water.

  ‘The flat dogs would have you inside ten minutes,’ Greg told her.

  ‘Flat dogs! Is that what you call crocodiles? Not a bad description, they do look a bit like dogs. Dopey dogs.’

  ‘Don’t be fooled. They’re very efficient killers,’ Greg warned. ‘I read somewhere that approximately ten people a day are killed by them in Africa.’

  ‘Surely people take precautions if they know crocodiles are around.’

  ‘They don’t seem to. Women are the most vulnerable because traditionally it is their job to go to the river to collect water and to wash clothes. You often find bracelets and other women’s trinkets in the stomach of a croc. It doesn’t deter them though. Even after an attack you’ll find people back in the same spot the next day.’

  She turned to Joseph. ‘Why don’t they take more care?’

  ‘That’s hard to explain. It’s to do with fatalism. Some people actually believe that a crocodile that lives in their part of the river will only take visitors. If one of the local villagers is taken it is seen as a sign that the person was cursed. I suppose they’ve had to live with the threat all their lives so they don’t see much point in worrying about it. What will happen, will happen.’

  ‘They’re deceptive creatures. You wouldn’t think by looking at them they could take a human. They seem so sluggish,’ Steve said.

  ‘Remember the speed of the one at Kariba?’ Richard reminded her.

  ‘A croc is supposed to be able to move over fifty kilometres an hour. A big croc stands around 120 centimetres high. They have incredibly powerful tails which they use to propel themselves out of the water and launch themselves at their intended victim. It’s the kind of sight that has a tendency to paralyse you.’ Greg pulled a fierce
face to emphasise his point.

  ‘I thought they were nearing extinction.’ Steve smiled at Greg’s face. His eyes were crossed and he was smacking his lips. He looked absurdly comical. ‘There’s been a ban on crocodile skin products for years in Australia.’

  Greg allowed his face to return to normal. ‘It’s a fallacy. Sure they’ve been shot out in some parts of Africa but in others, where they’re protected, there are thousands of them.’

  ‘You seem to know a fair bit about them,’ Richard commented.

  ‘I had a close encounter with one in the Shiré Valley in Malawi,’ Greg grinned. ‘I have a friend up there who culls flat dogs for the government. He took me with him once. I tell you, it’s an eerie feeling sitting in a tiny little boat at night surrounded by eyes which are saying “you’re mine”.’

  ‘What happened?’ Steve asked.

  ‘We’d shot six of them. Not big ones, youngsters around five years of age, between 120 and 180 centimetres. That’s the size they’re most commercially sought after.’

  ‘How can you be so precise about their age?’ Steve asked. ‘In Australia the saltwater crocodiles are much bigger than the freshwater ones.’

  ‘African crocodiles grow thirty centimetres a year for the first five years. Then they slow right down and only grow two-and-a-half centimetres each year. If you come across a biggie, say, six metres or so, you’ll know he’s well over a hundred years old. That’s how we tell their age.’

  ‘Thanks for that, Greg.’ She made a note of it. ‘What happened then?’

  ‘We had to tie them to the side of the boat and get the hell out because the other flat dogs aren’t fussy about what they eat and a dead brother or sister will do quite nicely thank you. We ran out of room around the sides of the boat so we laid one of them across the stern. We’d been travelling about five minutes and the bloody thing came alive. He crawled up the boat and towards us and I swear his mouth was watering.’

  ‘What did you do?’ She loved these stories. She intended to use them in her articles.

  ‘My friend put a nice big hole where his brain was and he lost interest in us,’ Greg said. ‘It was a hairy couple of minutes, though.’

  After breakfast and showers Richard suggested they go for a drive. Penny was still asleep and Joseph said he would stay in camp. Greg decided to stay behind as well, hoping for a chance to talk to Joseph. David did not want to be in the company of Steve and Richard so he excused himself, saying he wanted to finish the novel he was reading.

  They drove along the same track they had used that morning past where the buffalo had been and beyond. Although she looked for them, Steve saw no sign of the buffalo. The land was almost dead flat with occasional stony hills breaking the landscape. The soil was a sandy red, dotted with dry tufts of grass. The land looked uninviting and hard. Richard read her thoughts. ‘You should see this place after rain. Wild flowers spring up everywhere. I once saw this country so covered with colour it looked like a carpet.’

  She could not see how flowers would grow in such bareness. ‘Must be beautiful.’ She thought he had to be exaggerating.

  He stopped near a rocky kopjie. ‘These hills are useful for spotting game,’ he said. ‘Let’s climb this one and see what we can see.’

  The ground was uneven and rocky and, as they began to climb the kopjie, vegetation became even scarcer, with just the occasional hardy thorn tree finding space to grow between the rocks. It wasn’t a hard climb, the hill was only nine metres high, but the elevation increased their viewing of the land sufficiently to make it possible to see a good ten kilometres.

  Richard carried binoculars and a rifle. They reached the top of the hill and sat on a large rock. Steve felt its warmth through her cotton shorts. Richard scanned the horizon then tensed. ‘We’re in luck.’ He handed her the binoculars. ‘There are three lionesses lying in the shade of those trees. Have a look.’

  The trees were perhaps half a kilometre away. She took the binoculars and looked through them. At first she could see nothing but the flat, scrubby land. Then a tiny movement in the shade caught her attention and she focused on it. Sure enough, three lionesses were lying, panting in the heat, under a clump of thorn trees. Through the glasses they seemed close enough to touch and she thought briefly about the safety of the Land Rover at the base of the hill. The big cats lay relaxed, only their ears and eyes revealing their readiness to move if the occasion warranted. She heard a small exclamation from Richard and looked up at him.

  ‘Over there, to the left.’ He pointed. ‘It’s the old boy.’

  She swung the glasses and found him. He was huge, with a black mane like a ruff around his neck. He was sitting facing her way and, it seemed to Steve, his topaz-coloured eyes were penetrating her soul. Then, while she watched, convinced he could see her, the lion suddenly scratched himself, as a cat would. He looked so undignified and harmless, especially when he toppled sideways when his vigorous scratching caused him to lose balance. She laughed, delighted, and handed the binoculars to Richard so he could see.

  ‘He’s a big brute,’ Richard commented, looking at him through the glasses. ‘Bit long in the tooth.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Look at his coat. He’s had a lot of fights in his time. And his mane is a bit stringy.’

  ‘I think his mane is magnificent.’

  ‘I think your mane is magnificent.’ He bent his head and blew in her ear.

  She wound her arms around his neck and he removed the binoculars and kissed her deeply and lovingly. ‘Let’s go back to the Land Rover,’ he said huskily.

  ‘What about children?’ She remembered their audience the last time they made love in a car.

  ‘Out here? No way. The shumbai will see to that.’

  ‘Shumbai?’

  ‘Lion.’ He grinned at her. ‘Might as well start teaching you the language.’

  As they made their way back to the Land Rover, a thought struck her: making love with this man—who was as different to her as his country was to hers—while four shumbai stood guard, would have to be the purest form of wild.

  In the end they made love on a blanket on the ground. The temperature in the interior of the Land Rover was bordering on forty-two degrees Celsius. Steve worried briefly about the lions before forgetting them altogether.

  Afterwards they drove to where they had seen the lions and found them still lying in the shade. The old black-maned male had joined them. Leaning with her body half through the window, Steve took photographs until the male uttered a sharp loud growl and lumbered to his feet.

  She looked back into the vehicle. ‘He just swore at me.’

  ‘He’s a bit bad-tempered’ Richard agreed. ‘One of the females must be on heat.’

  Caught by the size and grace of the lion, she continued to take photographs while the big cat stared right into the lens of her camera, his tail twitching.

  ‘Get in,’ Richard had been watching the lion and figured a charge was not very far off.

  The lion gave a chuffing cough and flattened his ears. Steve kept taking pictures.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, get in and shut the window,’ he urged desperately.

  He knew when the charge came it would be at a furious pace. Although the lion would baulk at the Land Rover, there was nothing to stop him taking a swipe at Steve’s beautiful face.

  The lion crouched. Steve kept her camera on him. Suddenly, and for no apparent reason, one of the lionesses came to her feet and, in one fluid motion, cuffed the lion so hard his head bobbed, then turned her back on him and walked away. Steve captured the whole thing on camera, including the lion’s cowardly backdown after he had been so soundly reprimanded. He stalked away, trying to look dignified. As he passed the female who cuffed him he uttered a violently loud snarl but she ignored him.

  Steve finally stopped photographing and sat back inside the Land Rover. ‘I wouldn’t have missed that for quids.’ She rolled her film on, removing it and replacing it with another with
out even looking at the camera.

  ‘He could have taken your face off,’ Richard was furious with the risk she took. ‘He was as twitchy as hell.’

  ‘You take risks, why can’t I?’ She was still elated.

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘Why, because you’re a hairy-chested hunter and I’m just a girl?’ she challenged.

  ‘You don’t understand the dangers,’ he said. ‘I’ve lived in Africa most of my life. I know when a lion means business.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By the way he gathers himself and by the noise he makes.’

  She saw the worry for her in his eyes and backed down. ‘I’m sorry, I know it was risky. It’s just that the shots were too good to be true, especially when the female smacked him across the head. It was just like an irate parent. And the look on his face, Richard, did you see it? I swear he felt embarrassed.’

  He snorted. ‘Lions, dear girl, never feel embarrassed. They feel hungry. They feel threatened. They feel horny. They never feel embarrassed.’

  She was looking past him. ‘What’s he up to now?’

  The lion was trotting towards them and then disappeared behind the front of the Land Rover. Looking out through his window Richard uttered a single curse before starting the engine and driving rapidly away.

  ‘What happened?’ She looked back at the lion who had halfheartedly tried to chase them but was now almost lost in the dust the vehicle made.

  ‘Bugger was starting to chew the tyres.’

  They followed the track which took them back to the Limpopo river. ‘How far from our camp are we?’ she asked.

  ‘Must be about twenty kilometres.’

  She pointed across the river. ‘Coming from Australia where all the land is one country, it seems strange to think that over there is a different country with a different currency, its own government, even a different language.’