by Bear Grylls
Then their guts would start to cramp up so that they could barely stand up. Next their minds would begin to go – their brains would shut down; they would become delirious, hallucinating – no longer able to think straight.
And then they would just lie down and die a dazed, agonizing death. Or the grim reaper might come more swiftly: a passing lioness might devour them for dinner. At least that would be quick.
At that last thought, Beck bit his tongue, as if to jolt himself awake. The one thing any survivor had to have was a positive outlook. You have to tell yourself that you will get through whatever crisis faces you. Mentally going through the best ways of dying was not showing a positive outlook. If he kept thinking like that, then the battle was already half lost.
And so he looked around at the ground. By now it was light enough to see things clearly. He scuffed at it with the toe of his boot, then bent down and picked up a dusty pebble.
‘Breathe through your nose,’ he told Samora as he wiped it on his trousers. ‘You lose moisture in your breath. You keep more in this way.’
He passed her the cleaned-up pebble. ‘And put this under your tongue.’
She took it, then looked at him quizzically. He was already searching around for a pebble of his own. He dusted it off and prepared to pop it into his own mouth.
‘Makes you salivate,’ he said wryly. ‘Keeps your mouth wet.’
Samora’s mouth moved as she rolled the pebble around, and then both eyebrows went up and she nodded. It was working.
‘Doesn’t mean you’re getting any more water, though, does it?’ she said, removing the pebble for a few seconds. ‘You’re just reusing what’s already in you.’
‘True,’ Beck admitted, ‘but it’s a start. Come on. Pebble back in and let’s get moving.’
Chapter 27
We need water.
The words kept flashing through Beck’s mind. And each time, he sent them on as a kind of prayer.
He knew that, without water, they were in big trouble.
He had learned to pray from his father: each night at bedtime his father used to kneel and ask for God’s hand on his son’s life. Since then he had often prayed – and not just in sticky situations. And the amazing thing was, so often it had worked. Well, he was still here, wasn’t he?
Please? Beck added.
They pressed on westward. At least now they could see where they were going. It also made navigating more straightforward. The principle was easy. The sun had risen in the east and, this being the southern hemisphere, it would move round to the north of them as the day progressed, and then drop down towards the west.
The Earth took twenty-four hours to rotate once – a full 360 degrees. Which meant that, every hour, the sun would have moved fifteen degrees. Of course, the poachers had taken their watches, so neither of them had any way of telling when an hour had passed. They had to estimate, based on the distance they travelled.
Beck assumed they would achieve an average walking speed of about five kilometres per hour. He would pick a landmark on the horizon and estimate its distance. Then they would walk towards it, and pick another, and so on, until they had covered about five kilometres. This meant that the sun would be a further fifteen degrees on from when they had last looked at it. In this manner the pair could estimate which way was west, and keep going.
And all the while, schemes for getting water ran through Beck’s mind. If they came to a dry river bed, even a dry stream bed, he knew the best places to dig to find water lurking beneath the surface. There were several kinds of fruit you could eat – if the right kind of trees were available.
He scanned the horizon. This was savannah country – trees grew on these grasslands, but not densely enough to form any sort of forest, or provide shade for them to walk under. The only one he recognized by sight was a buffalo thorn – dark brown, fifteen metres tall. Its tough, thorny branches were used as fences for cattle corrals – but it bore no fruit.
And because he was looking at the horizon, he failed to notice what was at his feet – until he almost trod on it.
‘Hey, look!’ Samora said.
Beck had only just avoided tripping over a pile of brown balls of dung, each the size of a child’s head. The ground around them was scuffed, and the tracks continued in a wide line that crossed their route diagonally. Beck instantly recognized them: elephant tracks. Their broad flat feet didn’t sink into the ground – they were designed to spread the elephant’s immense weight. So the prints were shallow, flat depressions the size of wobbly dinner plates.
Beck felt his spirits soar. He cocked an eyebrow at the horizon and then up to the sky.
Not quite what I was thinking of, but thanks!
He crouched down beside one of the balls and poked it with a finger.
‘Beck!’ Samora protested. ‘Do you know what that is?’
‘Yup. It’s the drink we wanted.’
‘But . . . it’s elephant dung!’
‘That’s what I said. When I was with the Maasai in Kenya, they showed me this as an emergency way of getting water.’ He picked up one of the balls. ‘Elephants eat a lot of plants and drink a lot of water – plus they have a very fast digestive system. I mean, look at this.’ He prodded the ball of dung: it was a matted bundle of chewed grass and branches, glued together by the juices from the elephant’s guts.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘That’s why they get colic so badly. But you’re still—’
‘Which means,’ Beck went on, ‘the water stays in the . . .’ He waved the ball by way of illustration.
‘Dung.’ Samora filled in the missing word with distaste.
‘Dung. And if you get it fresh enough from the elephant’s backside, it can be almost sterile. So that means you can squeeze it and drink the fluid.’
And then, because he knew that a demonstration was always much more persuasive than words, he tilted his head back, held the ball above his mouth and squeezed.
‘Beck, no!’ Samora almost screamed, but it was too late. A steady trickle of yellow water dribbled out of the dung and into Beck’s waiting mouth. He grimaced, but kept squeezing until the ball started to crumble and bits fell onto his face.
‘Mm.’ He smacked his lips and grimaced. It might be sterile, but it had also passed all the way through an elephant and had acquired a certain flavour along the way. ‘I . . . uh, I was forgetting: it does help if you hold your nose while you do it.’
Samora looked as if she might faint.
‘Seriously . . .’ Beck picked up another ball and held it out to her. It was time to stop joking and get rehydrating. ‘If we don’t get fluids, we’ll die. And this is fluids.’
He saw in her eyes that she believed him, but she still hesitated. He knew from experience that there were all kinds of mental barriers to get over before you squeezed fresh elephant poo into your open mouth, so he didn’t push her. He simply waited while she ran through all the options and came to the inevitable conclusion.
If she didn’t want to die, then she had no choice.
Samora tilted her head back, held up the ball of dung and squeezed. With her free hand she held her nose shut. And she drank the liquid that came out.
Together they studied the dung that was left on the ground. They looked at each other.
‘It would be a shame to waste it,’ she said.
Beck nodded, smiling. ‘That’s my girl! And the best place to carry water is inside you,’ he told her.
And so they picked up the rest of the dung, wringing out every drop of disgusting, life-giving fluid.
‘It could be worse,’ she said as she finished her last mouthful. She threw the dung away and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. ‘It could be insects.’
‘Yeah, they’re pretty disgusting too,’ Beck said with a laugh. ‘But don’t worry – we’re not eating insects.’
He gazed over the land that lay ahead; he could see no sign of human life.
‘Well,’ he added, ‘not yet.’
Chapter 28
A low rumble echoed across the veld. Samora and Beck glanced at each other.
‘Lions?’ she asked, smiling, though she knew exactly what it was.
‘Or my stomach?’ Beck replied.
Their stomachs were sending them frequent and clear messages. The water was lovely, guys, but we need food.
The elephant dung fluids had helped them to keep going. Beck’s senses felt sharper, more alive, and there was an extra spring in their steps as they continued their steady trek back towards the border.
But they couldn’t ignore their stomachs for ever, especially now that they were getting so many loud and regular reminders.
It didn’t help that Beck had set such a rapid pace. Hurrying was unusual both for him and for Samora.
Yes, previously there had been times, travelling through a hostile landscape, when speed had been important. In Alaska he and Tikaani had had to cross some mountains to fetch urgent medical help for a badly injured Al. But then, hiking across the Sahara with Peter, or across the Kimberley with Brihony, it had been more important just to reach their destination. It took as long as it took. Hurrying just burned energy and used up water.
This time, though, they had company, and they had to stay well ahead of both James and the poachers. So they had kept up the pace. And they were now getting hungrier and hungrier.
They would keep going for another hour, Beck decided. Then he would make a real effort to find food. It might just be grubs living under the bark of a tree, but he would find something.
‘Hey, come on,’ Samora said suddenly. ‘We’re not that close to death, are we?’
Beck looked at her in surprise, but she smiled and nodded upwards. He saw vultures circling overhead, but then realized that they were drifting over to a spot on their right. They dropped down into the long grass and disappeared from view.
Immediately Beck changed direction. ‘There’s something dead over there.’
Samora quickly caught him up. ‘It might have been dead for days. It might be crawling with flies.’
‘Then we’ll leave it.’ Eating flesh that was old and rotten would be a death sentence. ‘But if it’s fresh – well, we’ll become scavengers too.’
‘Uh-huh. But keep an eye out for hyenas – they’re also scavengers, and aggressive ones at that.’
Beck nodded. Hyenas were the size of a large dog, with jaws so powerful they could bite through bone. You did not mess with them. If hyenas had already staked a claim to whatever they were heading for, then he and Samora would leave them to it.
But when the pair reached the spot where the vultures had landed, there were no hyenas in sight. Instead, the scavenging birds were all flocking towards the remains of a dead zebra. On its hindquarters they could see deep gouges and bite marks from whatever had killed it. The legs were intact, but the throat had been torn out and the skin over the rib cage had been ripped away so that the bones were exposed.
The vultures thrust their long necks into the body and tore out chunks of flesh. Beck knew that the feathers around their necks were short and stiff so that they didn’t get matted with congealed blood and intestinal juices. A long tangle of intestines had been pulled out of the body. It looked like a glistening, bloodstained hose that someone might use to try and inflate the carcass. Inside the gaping wound, the other organs lay like a heap of rubber bags.
Beck ran at the vultures, waving his arms. ‘Hey! Hey! Get off!’
The vultures flapped away indignantly, in a kind of hopping dance, using their wings to take clumsy leaps across the ground. Vultures never defended their catch if a bigger creature came along. Instead, they would bide their time and sweep in later to devour any gruesome leftovers.
Beck paused for a moment to admire the beautiful zebra. He was glad he hadn’t seen it being chased and torn down by predators, dying in pain and fear. But there was no point in getting sentimental. This was how it happened in the wild. Animals did not die peacefully in bed, surrounded by friends and relatives.
Plus, he and Samora needed to eat – or they too would end up on the menu.
‘We still don’t know how long it’s been dead,’ Samora said matter-of-factly.
Beck knew that a girl raised in the Kruger National Park would have the same practical attitude towards food. ‘Nope.’ He crouched down to study the dead animal more closely. The animal scent was overpowered by the rich, hot smell of blood and innards. ‘It doesn’t smell rotten – the vultures wouldn’t be eating it if it was bad.’ He waved a hand to brush a fly off his face. ‘And if it had been killed more than a couple of hours ago, there’d be maggots here . . .’ He paused, before adding, ‘It’ll be safe to eat.’
He noticed that Samora was running her fingers over the bite marks on the zebra’s rump. ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.
‘Judging by these marks, I’d say it was killed by wild dogs. If they’re still around . . .’
She let that sink in while everything Beck knew about African wild dogs ran through his mind. They were more like wolves than dogs. They were similar in size, and they hunted in packs. Usually, what they chased, they caught.
‘People think of lions as the top predator,’ Samora told him, ‘but when they hunt, they’re successful only thirty per cent of the time.’
‘And wild dogs . . .?’
‘Eighty per cent.’
‘OK. So let’s make this quick.’
Chapter 29
Making it quick was easy to say – not so easy to do.
‘We can’t just tear the meat off with our fingers,’ Samora pointed out. ‘Or teeth,’ she added.
Beck had a brief vision of them sticking their faces into the mess of the zebra’s guts like the vultures, and chewing.
‘We have an improvised knife right here.’
‘We do?’
‘Kind of.’
Beck pulled the chair leg from his belt and considered it. It made a useful club but it had no sharp edge. He could break it in two, and the wood would splinter and that might work. But the edge wouldn’t be as sharp as he wanted it, and he would have broken his club.
Then he looked thoughtfully at the zebra’s bloodstained ribs. They would be perfect.
‘We just have to think a bit smart,’ he said. ‘Can you grab me a rock? Something heavy that you can just lift. And keep an eye out for any dogs.’
While Samora did that, Beck braced himself with his feet apart. He gripped the chair leg with both hands and jammed it in between two of the zebra’s ribs, right at the base where they joined the animal’s spine. Then he heaved.
He felt something shift, and then, with a loud crack, one of the ribs broke away. It was still joined to the zebra’s breastbone at the other end, but now Beck could hold it in both hands and twist it to work it loose.
After a few attempts the entire rib came away in his hands. It was slender and curved, the length of his arm.
‘Will this do?’ Samora asked. She had found a lump of stone the size of a small football. Bits of earth still clung to it from where she had levered it out of the ground.
‘Perfect. Hang on . . .’
‘Oh, thanks!’ she replied, struggling under the weight.
Beck jammed one end of the curved rib into the ground, then the other, so that it formed a small arch.
‘I’ll just take that . . .’
With a bit of fumbling he managed to take the rock from her. He stood over the rib, aimed, and let go.
The rock hit the rib and bounced off. The rib fell over, still intact. They both looked at it for a moment.
‘OK, that was a trial run . . .’
‘Bones are pretty strong, Beck,’ Samora pointed out. ‘Otherwise they’d break every time the zebra fell over.’
‘So let’s apply a bit more force. Hold it steady?’
This time Samora took the rib and held it against the ground, both hands wrapped around one end. Beck wasn’t going to rely on gravity again. He lifted the rock and brought it dow
n with all his strength.
The rib shattered into three pieces.
‘Yes!’
Beck picked up the middle bit. It was about ten centimetres long and both ends were sharp and jagged. ‘That’s better!’
He fingered one of the ends. The bone made a sharp point.
‘Pointy,’ said Samora.
‘Pointy, but not cutty. It needs sharpening.’
At least he now had something to work with. He placed the tip of the piece of rib against the rock that lay on the ground, and dragged the bone back towards him. He did this over and over again, while Samora waited patiently. Slowly a sharp edge started to form. Every minute or so he would stop and check it, rubbing his thumb crossways across it to avoid getting cut.
‘Could you see if there’s a short length of stick around – like a thick marker pen size?’ he asked Samora.
‘Finder of sticks and rocks – that’s me.’
Eventually Beck was satisfied that the bone was as sharp as it was going to get. If he worked it any more, then it would start to crumble. The problem was, it was now all blade. He couldn’t get a grip on it without cutting his fingers.
But Samora had found a short stick, about as thick as two fingers. She handed it to Beck.
‘Perfect! Thanks.’
Back in their prison, when they had managed to undo the poachers’ knots, Beck had wrapped the ropes that had tied them around his waist. He still had them. Now he unwound one of them and used the bone blade to cut off a length.
Finally he used it to split the end of the stick and then inserted the bone into this incision. Next Beck wrapped the short length of cord around the end of the stick to hold the bone blade in place, so that only half of the cutting edge stuck out.
Job done. Now that he had a knife with a blade and a handle, he could get to work.
