by Tony Park
‘That’s a young one, walking behind the bigger one. That must be its mother,’ said Nigel the New Zealander. Nigel was already annoying Mike, and it was only the first day of the trip. He was a know-it-all who didn’t know very much.
‘They’re a mating pair. Mummy and daddy,’ Mike said.
‘How can you tell?’ Nigel asked.
‘The smaller one’s walking behind the larger one. They’re white rhinos and white rhino cows always make their calves walk in front of them, where they can see them. The smaller one’s a female.’
‘They look dark grey to me. Maybe they’re black rhinos,’ Nigel said, challenging the guide yet again.
Mike sighed inwardly. There was one on every trip. ‘The terms “white” or “black” don’t refer to their colouring. The term “white” is a contraction of an Afrikaans word, for wide, referring to its wide mouth, which it uses for grazing. The black rhino has a narrow mouth, with a prehensile lip. After the name “white rhino” caught on, people just started calling the other species black, for convenience.’ Mike refocused his binoculars so he didn’t have to look at Nigel as he spoke. He had to give the boy room to back down with grace.
‘Got a degree in this stuff or something?’ Nigel asked sarcastically.
‘Yes,’ Mike said, and Kylie, a plump Aussie girl with glasses, giggled. Mike liked Kylie already.
‘Time to make camp,’ Mike said, and turned Nelson’s key. The truck started first go, with a belch of black diesel smoke and a noisy rattle.
They had entered the park via the Malelane gate, but they weren’t going to stay at Malelane Camp, where Mike had taken Isabella, where they had made love for the first time. He didn’t want to stir up any more old memories than he had to and, besides, he thought his charges were in need of a swimming pool and a shop where they could buy cold beer and carved wooden elephants. Mike thought of Isabella again, though, as he put the truck in gear and his tourists babbled away in the back.
It was nearly five o’clock when they coasted through the wooden gates of Pretoriuskop Camp, about sixty kilometres further north into the national park. The rhino sighting had delayed them. Mike pulled into the car park outside the thatch-roofed reception building.
‘OK, everyone. Toilets are over there, shop’s that way. I’m going to check in and we’ll drive down to the camping ground after that. Stretch your legs and don’t get lost.’ He sort of hoped Nigel would get lost and bump into a lion, but the electric fence around the camp meant the odds were in Nigel’s favour, not his.
Mike walked down a paved path edged by manicured lawns to the reception building. The young man behind the desk gave him a big smile.
‘My friend, good to see you again,’ he said, extending his hand. They shook, three times, in the African way, first shaking their right hands in the usual European manner, then lifting them to clasp and shake with the thumbs interlocked, then once more in the European way.
‘Lloyd, how’s it? Campsite for eleven, please. It’s already paid for and booked under the company name.’ Mike handed him the National Parks booking slip and they exchanged small talk about the weather. Once Lloyd had placed a receipt in Mike’s park entry permit he went outside and rounded the crew up from around the car park for the short trip across to the camping ground.
Kylie and Linda were the last aboard, having stopped to place a green-headed pin on a large map of the Kruger park on a board outside the tourist information office next to reception. The map was for game sightings, and tourists placed coloured pins corresponding to different animals at spots on the map where they had been seen. The green pin was for the rhinos they had just been watching.
‘Pretoriuskop is the oldest camp in the park,’ Mike said over his shoulder to the group as they drove through the camp. ‘It dates back to the ’20s.’
They passed rows of circular tan-coloured rondavels, each hut topped with a pointed thatched roof. The buildings faced onto grassy lawns shaded by mature trees. The rondavels ranged in size from simple two-bed affairs, with communal shower and toilet blocks, to larger, fully self-contained structures with toilets and kitchens.
They drove past the small service station and another circle of rondavels. The first braai fires of the evening were flickering brightly in the fading light and the smell of woodsmoke filled the air.
‘Look, reindeer,’ Kylie said, pointing out a herd of a dozen fawn-coloured antelope grazing on the lawn between the huts, seemingly oblivious to the humans who sipped drinks and watched them from shaded verandahs.
‘Impala,’ Mike said, gently correcting her. ‘There are about a hundred thousand in the park and they’re the most common antelope you’ll see.’
A few people waved at them as they negotiated their way along the camp’s winding internal roads. ‘Most of the people who come here are white South Africans. Altogether nearly a million people, including foreigners, visit Kruger each year,’ Mike said, continuing his tour guide’s spiel.
The camping area was only about a third full so he had a good choice of sites. Night was falling and Mike quickly set about the business of setting up camp. The first set-up was always the slowest, as he had to give a demonstration of how to erect the two-person green canvas dome tents the tourists would sleep in.
That first night, as usual, Mike cooked the meal pretty much solo. He always prepared something simple at the start of the trip – boiled potatoes, coleslaw and a green salad he’d made the day before and stored in Nelson’s portable refrigerator, and a braai of steaks and sausages. He found that looking after the first meal on his own always taught him about the group. It showed up the helpers – those who would eagerly volunteer to assist; the loafers – who would gladly sit back and watch others work; and the leaders – those who organised the washing-up at the end, a chore he deliberately left undone.
At last they were sitting around the campfire on fold-out canvas and aluminium camp stools, stomachs full and tongues loosened a little by beer and wine over dinner. A million stars blazed above them and burning embers swirled up from the settling fire to join the light show. Mike felt everyone was suitably mellow for the business of formal introductions. He invited Sarah, who was seated next to him, to begin.
‘I’m Sarah Thatcher. I’m twenty-nine, I’m from Highgate in London. I’m a journalist and I don’t really know what I’m doing here. In fact, I don’t even know if I want to be here,’ she said.
‘Why don’t you want to be here, Sarah?’ Mike said, breaking the cold silence that followed her opening salvo.
‘God, this is painful. You sound like a psychiatrist,’ she said melodramatically.
‘Missing your regular appointment, eh?’ Nigel piped in from the shadows. Someone chuckled.
Mike ignored him and said nothing, waiting for her to continue. Cicadas chirped in the bush and somewhere nearby a bullfrog croaked, but they were all waiting to hear more from Sarah. From her accent she sounded upper class, or at least from a moneyed family. He knew why she was there, but he wanted her to let everyone else know.
‘I’m a journalist. I work for a travel magazine in London, Outdoor Adventurer,’ she made the title sound faintly distasteful as if she herself would never be caught outdoors, or adventuring. ‘Everyone else on the magazine has been abroad with work, to Bali, to Chile, to Nepal, to India. This is the first trip I was ever offered, so, naturally, I couldn’t say no . . .’
‘Naturally,’ a female voice echoed mockingly from the other side of the fire, but Mike couldn’t be sure who it was.
‘Carry on, Sarah,’ Mike said, after the ripple of laughter died down. He could see in her lively blue eyes, which shone in the reflected glow of the fire’s embers, that she was getting her hackles up and didn’t like to be mocked.
‘Well, I wanted to go to Africa. No problems there, but, well, not quite in this way,’ she said, not seeming to notice the open-mouthed faces around the campfire. ‘You see, when the editor said “Africa” I thought I would be staying on a private ga
me reserve. I didn’t expect to be with a crowd of backpackers in the back of an old military vehicle.’
Mike wondered how the rest of the group, who had paid to be there, would react. He kept his mouth shut.
‘So you’re here for free?’ came an incredulous English male voice.
‘And what, we’re not good enough for you?’ said a girl with an accent from the East End of London.
‘Would I pay to do this? No,’ Sarah replied matter-of-factly. ‘But it’s my job, and I should tell you I’ll be writing an article about this adventure, and taking photographs. I may want to interview some of you for my story.’
‘Pig’s arse,’ said Nigel. ‘You’re not putting my photo in some yuppie wanker travel magazine.’
‘OK, OK. That’s enough,’ Mike said, holding up his hands. ‘Sarah was invited along by the travel company that books our tours to do a story on a typical overland trip for her magazine. It may not be everybody’s cup of tea, but a trip like this is as good as you make it. You get out of it what you put into it.’
‘All I’ve got so far out of this trip is clichés,’ Sarah said, loud enough for everyone to hear.
‘I’m sorry, Sarah,’ Mike said with feeling. ‘My boss gave me photocopies of some of your old stories to read. Perhaps that’s where I’ve picked them up from.’
She eyed him coldly.
In fact, her stories read quite well, he thought. They’d been about canyoning, parachuting and skiing at various spots in the United Kingdom, and each ‘adventure’ had probably ended with dinner and drinks at a luxurious country hotel. Still, she obviously wasn’t as prissy as she first appeared, and her outdoor adventuring had not done her figure any harm.
In fact, although she was acting like a bitch, he thought she was very attractive. She had bobbed blonde hair, natural as far as he could tell, those icy-blue eyes, and a longish but aquiline nose, which didn’t make her look any less arrogant than she was trying to be. Her skin was fair and unblemished. Her clothes were safari-chic, straight from the expensive camping stores around Covent Garden, Mike guessed. She wore a grey sleeveless button-up shirt which showed off her lithe arms, and khaki trousers with too many pockets and detachable legs. Her Hi-Tech hiking boots, like the rest of her outfit, looked like they’d never been worn before. She continued to glower at him across the campfire. He wondered if he would still have a job once Rian received the December edition of Outdoor Adventurer.
Mike had an old soldier’s distrust of the media and he doubted Rian’s wisdom in inviting a reporter on one of their overland trips. They were not at the top end of the market by any means, and even on the best planned and managed trips they still had problems from time to time.
‘Let’s move along,’ he said.
Most of Rian’s bookings came via a UK-based chain of travel agencies, but that didn’t mean that only English people travelled on the trucks. The agencies advertised in the many free magazines published in London catering for Australian, New Zealand and South African backpackers living in the United Kingdom, as well as glossy magazines aimed at young men and women. The company also advertised itself in Outdoor Adventurer, another reason why Sarah was with them.
The introductions continued. Kylie was an Australian nurse enjoying London and working at Guy’s. Linda, the redhead, worked in a pub in Nottingham, and wanted to see the world and be a dancer.
Sam, an American studying at Cambridge, tried to compensate for his intellect and geeky study choice of physics with high-street hip clothes – baggy shorts with a drop waist that showed off his boxers, a Mambo shirt and a necklace made of steel ballbearings. He also used the word ‘dude’ way too much for Mike’s liking, but he had organised the washing-up party after dinner and had pitched in to do his share of the post-dinner chores.
Melanie, or ‘Mel’ as she preferred, was the child of Jamaican immigrants from London’s East End. To an antipodean like Mike, the cockney accent didn’t gel with the smooth ebony skin and the corn-row hairdo. She had a nice smile and no airs and graces. Mel had also been a good helper during the cooking.
Next there were the lads. George the Geordie from Newcastle in the north of England, a ginger-haired lorry driver, and his rotund, pasty-faced sidekick Terry, who was from London originally, but worked as a plumber in the same town as his friend. There was a growing pile of empty Castle beer cans at their feet.
George and Terry, as Mike could have predicted, were inclined to loaf, and Linda had been keener to share a beer with the two boys than take part in the cooking chores earlier in the evening. Sam, however, had ensured that the two Englishmen helped out with drying, and Linda had felt obliged to help Mike stack the plates and cutlery back in the storage boxes as a result.
Nigel, the Kiwi, told the group he worked for the tax office back home. Mike wondered if he had any friends at all. Nigel had sat on a stool and read his book until the food was served up.
Apart from Sarah and one of the other women, Jane, none of them was older than twenty-two. Biologically speaking, Mike realised he was old enough to be the father of most of them. For the next few weeks, he mused, he would be their guardian, tour guide, drinking buddy, bodyguard and chauffeur.
The circle of introductions was nearly complete, save for the two women sitting to Mike’s left. Both were good looking, with strawberry blonde hair, pale eyes, high cheekbones and wide, sensual mouths. They could have passed for sisters, he thought, except for the tiny wrinkles that showed around Jane’s eyes when she smiled.
‘Hi, I’m Jane, from Bristol. I’m an estate agent,’ she said, with a saleswoman’s smile and a rolling West Country accent. ‘My age is my business, but Julie and I are both really excited about this trip, even though we’re a little bit nervous about lions and tigers. Hopefully Mike will get us through in one piece,’ she finished with a laugh.
‘Give over, Mum. Don’t be daft. There’s no tigers in Africa,’ said the younger Muir. ‘I’m Julie. And, yes, she is my mum. I’m eighteen so you can work out for yourself how old she is. I’m studying journalism at college,’ she said, directing the last remark towards Sarah Thatcher, who didn’t seem to acknowledge her presence.
Jane wore a loose black singlet top printed with gold elephant motifs that looked like it had come from Thailand or some other Asian holiday spot, and a short stone-coloured skirt that showed off her toned, crossed legs. Julie sported a pink tank top and grey cargo shorts.
Julie turned back to Mike and said, ‘I’ve got to do a travel story as part of my assessment this year, so maybe I could write something on the trip as well, if that’s OK with you, Mike.’
‘Fine by me,’ he said.
The introductions were over and conversations started between small knots of people around the fire as embryonic friendships were formed. Sarah was the first to head for her tent. Mike had assigned her to share Linda’s tent.
‘Why can’t I have a tent of my own? The truck’s not full, so I’m sure you have spares,’ she said as she left.
‘You could, but you’d have to set it up and pull it down by yourself each day,’ he replied.
‘Well, that’s fine by me,’ she said stubbornly.
‘Hang on, it’s not fine by me!’ Linda chimed in. ‘I’m not putting up my own bloody tent every day. You can muck in and help like the rest of us. Just don’t snore.’
Sarah strode off to the little tent in silence.
Mike had organised the ten travellers in five two-person tents and he, as usual, would sleep on a fold-out mattress on the floor in the back of Nelson. He liked to be in the truck at night, to make sure it and the valuables and backpacks locked in the rear storage locker were not left unattended.
Most of the group were still recovering from their flights, so the first-night party wound up around ten.
‘Don’t forget, everyone,’ Mike said as they folded their stools and headed for their tents, ‘you’ve got to take your anti-malarial medication, either daily or weekly, depending on the brand you’re using
. Keep your tents zipped tight as well.’
‘Yes, Mum,’ a male voice chimed in from somewhere in the shadows.
8
Mike crouched by the remains of the previous night’s fire and felt the residual warmth of its embers grow as he blew steadily into the white coals. The end of a half-charred stick finally glowed red and he used it to light his morning cigarette. It was a good time of the day, chilly and half dark, with the top of the new sun just peeking above the ridge to the east.
He heard a click and a mechanical whirr behind him, then a woman’s voice said, ‘Did you learn that from a movie? Crocodile Dundee, maybe?’
He turned and saw Sarah Thatcher, her blonde hair tousled by sleep, an expensive camera hanging from a broad strap around her neck. She wore a blue Polartec fleece, to ward off the morning’s chill.
‘I left my lighter in the truck,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t you ask before you point that thing at someone?’
‘I get better pictures this way. You’re not going to order me to stop doing my job are you, Major Williams?’ she asked.
‘How did you know I used to be in the army?’ he asked, surprised that she knew of his background. He deliberately gave away as little as possible when he introduced himself to the travellers. In particular, he never dwelt on his military background.
‘I dig. It’s my job. In fact, all it took was a call to your boss in Johannesburg. He was fulsome in his praise. Described you as something of a hero. Said you’d tangled with some elephant poachers in Mozambique.’
‘Rian’s prone to exaggeration,’ he replied. He made a mental note to punch his friend and employer next time he saw him.
‘There was also a small story in one of the South African newspapers, the Citizen, last year. I found it on the net. What can you tell me about your time in Mozambique?’
‘Nothing,’ he said.
