by Martin, M.
“And as for David, any idea as to when his flight arrives?” I ask.
“Actually, he should be joining you in time for the game drive at four o’clock. I believe he was due to takeoff from Joburg around now, and then it’s about two hours to the lodge.”
“And that’s before dinner, correct?”
“Indeed, after the game drive, you’ll have near half an hour to freshen up before returning here for dinner with us and the other guests. Tonight it will be dinner in the lodge, perhaps on the terrace, depending on the weather.”
Tamaryn seems an unlikely candidate to be running the check-in at her family’s lodge, given her position now as the main point of contact for outside journalists like myself. She seems to rotate between shifts in the bush to assist with lodge management and various marketing duties that seem to suit her well. Her makeup is slight, and her hair is unfussy and windblown that could be the result of a cold ride in on an open jeep. Her clothes are rugged and masculine but of impeccable quality giving her long torso a feminine silhouette despite their bulkiness. She seems relaxed in the lodge setting as if it were an extension of her own home supposedly attached to the existing property.
“Where do you live when in camp?” I ask, interrupting her description of the neighboring camps of Londolozi that are more family-minded than this luxury property.
“Actually, my parents have a house that’s part of the main compound that also includes my grandparents’ home.”
“So there’s a whole hidden life other than what guests see?”
“Yes, you can see the house on the ride in and out of camp, but other than that most guests never really know we are there.”
“And where does the rest of the staff live?”
“There is staff housing at the perimeter of the main reserve, a good ways away from guests to avoid all their wild late-night antics being heard.”
“But close enough to save us if need be in the night?”
“Exactly. Elephant wire surrounds the entire camp because elephants are so destructive, but any of the other predators can walk freely through camp and do. That’s why you must stay inside after dark.”
Once Tamaryn gets away from business talk, we enjoy a great conversation as we make the short walk along an elevated walkway to a row of cabins along a series of private footpaths. She discusses her younger brother’s various bad-boy antics and her mother’s classic cake served for high tea. She picks back up on shoptalk as she approaches my room and turns to details about its recent refurbishment by one of Cape Town’s top designers.
My mind drifts as I notice I don’t need a key or swipe card to get inside my room. A pull of the wooden latch called a baboon-lock opens a solid wood door revealing a large living room similar to the main lodge with fluffy couches, animal print rugs, and wooden tables stacked with glossy books and local artifacts. Timber screens conceal floor-to-ceiling sliding windows that open to a private veranda the overlooks the vast bush land and a small circular pool punctuated with double chrome lanterns and two chaise lounges. Tamaryn continues on a step-by-step tour that doesn’t miss a closet description or explanation regarding the Charlotte Rhys toiletries. Every window is open and she describes every nuance in detail.
After explaining the exact time my trekker will come to the room to gather me for the evening game drive, she leaves me be with little enough time for a clothing change, let alone a proper bath and freshening up. Hunger has the best of me as well. I check out the minibar that’s well stocked with every liquor imaginable, complete with chunky crystal stemware and fresh ice, but only a lone tin bucket of freshly baked chocolate cookies are left for satiating my enormous hunger. Nerves have me about half a tin deep in the cookies before the ranger arrives with a hefty knock on the door, and I realize nothing stands between him and me in my underwear other than a pull of that lever.
David didn’t arrive in time for the evening’s game drive, which meant it would just be Nogo, Duarte, and me roaming the vast terrain. I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe something had delayed David or maybe a change in plans had him staying behind for business. Or maybe, just maybe, he met someone else.
I am the last to arrive back to the lodge for the evening game drive, and we make our way to the Land Rover where Duarte waits with the engine running. I stumble up the side of the truck and choose between three empty rows to settle inside the middle one.
“There’s a hot water bottle under the seat for you as well as blankets to your side should you get cold,” Duarte says as we pull out of camp and back on the now-familiar road we drove in on from the airport.
My mind concentrates on the sky, hoping to see any sign of an arriving airplane at the airfield, but there’s only perfect blue and a sun toward the far corner looking to make its daily exit. I can’t help but wonder what’s become of David. Perhaps he found out about this great lie I’ve been living, or maybe he no longer feels the same as he did in LA or Paris. The driver and trekker are silent, concentrating on the terrain and allowing me to get lost in the landscape of my own mind. The gravel road retreats to a bumpier ride as our truck thumps by groups of impala that jitter with their heads as we approach and then disperse with an almost harmonic trot.
“Do you hear that, Catherine?” Duarte says of the baboons trumpeting overhead in a playful herald. “That is the male baboon calling alarm. There is something they don’t like lurking in the area.”
Duarte really needs no response to his question, just silence that he interprets as agreement, query, or confusion for which he elaborates further in all cases before jolting the truck in the direction of his own intrigue.
Evening turns to night without me noticing, and a biting coldness sets in, which isn’t easily displaced with a now-cold water bottle or fleece blanket. As we drive over the bush, areas of the land are suddenly warm for no reason.
“The subterranean floor of granite that sits just under the dirt stays warm like a hot plate once the sun has set and into most of the night,” Duarte explains. “It is here that many larger animals congregate in colder months and—”
Suddenly Duarte’s explanation stops; the Land Rover erupts in silence before gliding to a stop above the crackling branches below us.
“Listen to that sound … it’s the lioness.”
In the night sky, a cry erupts that ricochets from the far reaches of the horizon like a high-pitched whale released from her soul that aches in its tone before coming to a desperate guttural surge she repeats into the night sky as she comes into view.
“Her call reaches out over the darkness over and over again in hopes the male lion will hear it somewhere in this great vastness and will return to her and her cub.”
“Her cub? Where is it?” I say in a whisper that carries, despite my low voice.
“He’s somewhere near, but what the lioness doesn’t know is that the male she is calling was killed by the Ferocious Five, a group of five male lions that traveled in from the neighboring reserve and have killed all the male lions in the area except this one last cub.”
“So what will she do?”
“She will eventually catch a whiff of their scent and realize she is in great danger, but we hope not before they hear her own call and come looking with a vengeance.”
“Will they kill her as well?”
“That is yet to be determined; she most certainly will fight to protect her young cub,” Duarte says with the most direct of eye contact, now fully engaged in this story of life and death.
“But the male lions want to mate with her and produce their own cubs,” says Nogo. “So they will most likely distract her before killing the cub swiftly.”
“It will be no match, as the cub is still very young, which is why she has fallen behind from her own pride,” Duarte says.
“But that is lucky for her, as her own pride has already lost all their own male cubs,” Nogo clarifies. �
�That is why the males are not hearing her call now; they are too busy with the new ladies.”
“Don’t the lionesses resist after their cubs are killed?”
“The lioness realizes that she must yield to the most powerful of the lions or die herself. She has no choice,” Nogo says.
“But she also enjoys the instinctual mating she knows will produce another cub with a more powerful mate that won’t let his offspring be killed by a more powerful male,” Duarte clarifies.
From the shadows of an African sage bush, a fluffy young cub playfully bounces into view, completely unaware of his universe of danger as the mother sits well aware of the unknown that lies before her. Her two paws fully extended in front of her upright torso lay parallel to one another as her eyes slowly drift into a soft sleep only to reopen swiftly to complete awareness, without any motion, and then closing again to the deepest of momentary rest.
Our vehicle and its three occupants sit motionless as well, imagining the enormous burden this mother faces and the almost certain tragedy that lies ahead of her. My thoughts turn to Nogo and Duarte, who follow these sagas like a sort of wildlife soap opera that lives in a surreal dimension only feet from their touch and yet always beyond their control.
Perhaps my own fate is as clear to those that hover around me. Brutal answers to all my troubles and concern lurking so obviously on the horizon as my each step betrays those I most love to build a relationship of lies with David. My own tragedy seems as unavoidable as that of the lioness, and yet we continue into the unknown and inch closer and closer to danger.
The moment grows stiller as the cub lies down next to its mother, and the encroaching night settles into a quiet lull. I wonder if David has settled into our room, and speculate what our conversation will be during dinner. A crescent moon hovers in the distance, unassuming but made incredible by the setting of treetop silhouettes and infinite African bush etched in darkness.
“Should we get going?” I ask.
Suddenly, without waiting for a response, the roar of the engine interrupts the stillness. Duarte reverses away from this mother and son scene and back along the fallen path from which we arrived. The path looks unfamiliar in the pitch-black night, the front trekker illuminating our way as well as scanning the landscape for other predators that come alive by night.
Duarte finds his way back to the gravel road and then increases speed as we wind our way through the bush and along a plateau overlooking a meandering watering hole. Suddenly, we come upon a massive tree surrounded in illuminated hurricane lanterns wincing with candlelight, and a small bar arranged in the bush with a collection of antique liquor bottles and cut-crystal glasses that magnify the light of the tapered candles glinting above.
“This is incredibly truly incredible,” I say as the engine stops once more, and Nogo rushes off the front of the truck to attend the awaiting bar.
“Your sundowner comes a little late, but also a little more magical on your first day,” Duarte says as Nogo pours him a whisky straight up and my usual gin and tonic that I didn’t even have to request verbally.
“If you look to the horizon, you’ll see three hippos in the water. Normally, we would sit along the lakefront, but as it is night, we want to stay a bit farther away should they go on the move.”
“They’re such loveable creatures,” I say with a sip from the thick glass that instantly soothes my chapped lips.
“They are the most dangerous animal in Africa,” Duarte counters. “They kill more people than lions and snakes combined.”
“While people are swimming or near the water?”
“No, it is during the night that they travel, and they will kill any person they come across with such a ferociousness you cannot imagine.”
“Do they crush them or eat them?” I ask.
“When we get back to the lodge I will show you a picture of their mouth; it is incredible. You’d rightly take on a shark versus the bite of a hippo, I assure you.”
Nogo unpacks a series of five round metal containers from his sack and puts them onto a silver tray with a wooden inlay that reveals a presentation of South African jerky known as biltong and fluffy meatballs with a name that doesn’t make it any more familiar.
“And now we will leave you be for a few moments to enjoy and be at one with the sounds of the bush,” Duarte remarks as he and Nogo take leave from the makeshift bar.
“You mean you’re just going to leave me here, alone, with the Furious Five on the prowl?”
“The Ferocious Five. And no, ma’am, we will just be over there, but it is important that you hear and feel how it is to be one with the wild. Humans are the most feared of predators; trust me, you will be fine, even if we did leave.” Nogo’s accent calms my nerves as the men make their way to the back of the truck and out of my sight.
The quietness of the makeshift camp reveals itself much louder than I imagined. The bush lets itself be heard by the faded cackles of a distant hyena between the interspersed splashing of my hippos becoming more and more playful or agitated. It’s hard to tell the mood of the wild, such a tenuous line between harmless and deadly that leaves those unfamiliar with the landscape always verging on the fearful.
The space feels entirely different on the ground outside of the insulated truck, away from the guides, and the safety that they provide. I can hear my breath and see it meet the air engulfed in a warm fog that vanishes into the night air. Each of my steps stirs the blotting of dried leaves on the ground, and the scent of Africa lingers in the air as if for me alone. The isolation is intoxicating and such a juxtaposition to the old me. I used to avoid being alone; I always filled my nights with dinners and dates with friends or anyone. I worried I would always be alone. The older I got, the more I started to think there was something wrong with me, something unlovable or unworthy.
I could almost imagine living here; getting lost in the wild and the animals in the bush that fill the lives of these people. Upon arriving, I thought it too isolated and too removed, but I actually feel closer and more engaged in life than I’ve felt in a long time. For the few moments on that ride, my mind actually drifted from thoughts of Matt and David to see what is directly in front of me. To be here and not become lost in Africa would be a feat that’s impossible even for me.
The longer the men are gone, the more wild the sounds became. Although I’m unsure whether it’s because the night is ripening and the wild is awaking, or because I am paying attention to all that is around me, and not that which lingers outside the scope of my immediate attention. The sounds are intense as the rustling in the nearby bushes gives me pause for a minute, unsure if I should get into the truck or run back to join the men.
Suddenly, the bush quiets and I can hear the voices of Duarte and Nogo returning to my side. “How did you do? No lions, I take it.”
“You’re so right. It’s an entirely different experience being alone.”
“It’s like your mind’s version of the eyes adjusting to brightness or dark light. After a minute, it’s an entirely different world,” Duarte replies as the men pack up the makeshift bar and load it onto a platform along the front of the truck.
“We should be heading back, as you’ll be a bit short on time before supper.” And with Nogo’s words, I am reminded that David is somewhere in this great place, likely showering in preparation for dinner or sitting in the lobby waiting for me and all my khakis and linens to arrive.
As we make our way back to camp, the night is still. Nogo and his flashlight search in vain for our criminal lions, another leopard, or wild dogs that seem to be the most elusive to find. Near the road that leads back to camp, a lone elephant stands dazed under a tree as if waiting for a group to catch up.
“What is he doing?” I ask pointing to the elephant as the truck passes by, as if deeming it unworthy of stopping.
“Oh, that is a sad old man, that one,” Nogo laughs. “He
is an older bull, and when a male elephant is chased out of a herd, he usually lives the rest of his life alone. They don’t take him back.”
“Never? You mean he is forever isolated from his group.”
“Yes, except the occasional mating he steals from other herds. Maybe he makes another family, but very rarely, as once they are the bull they don’t play well with other bulls and are too old to win a fight for dominance. So they are alone.”
As we approach the camp, Tamaryn stands there again with her attendants ready with water and a refreshment towel. They are illuminated by a row of flickering candles that line the stairway to the main lodge.
“Welcome back. How was the game drive?”
“Still no sign of the Ferocious Five, but we saw the mum and cub that seem to be doing all right.”
“Has she gotten wind of them yet?” Tamaryn asks.
“No, but it can’t be far off,” Duarte replies.
My focus is now on my own primal desire and wonder whether David has made it to camp.
As their animal conversations continue, I make my way alongside Nogo into the main lodge hoping for my first glimpse that lingers in my mind when David is away.
“Um, Catherine!” Tamaryn yells from behind.
“I’m afraid David didn’t make it in on the last flight, so I assume he must have missed his flight or has been delayed.”
Her words echo through me as a cloud of uncertainty blocks all the serenity and clarity I felt just moments ago.
“He didn’t leave a message or call the office in JoBurg, so I would think he’s simply delayed and will be here in the morning,” she continues.
She handles me with the finesse my mother would use when my high school boyfriends would break up with me. My mind prepares my heart for the worst; David may not come at all. A sense of embarrassment overwhelms me, reddening my cheeks. Here I am, a grown woman with a family, leading this secret relationship with a man who probably has little more interest in me than a passing fling. Even worse, I’m willing to risk everything just to have a few minutes more with him.
