by Tony Park
The lion and lioness moved as one, a tawny blur as they rounded the truck and charged towards Terry.
Terry screamed, a high-pitched wail of primal terror.
‘Hold on!’ Mike yelled as he clasped the Englishmen’s hands in his own. He leaned back into the cab, dragging Terry up the metal side. ‘Give me a hand, for Christ’s sake!’ Terry was overweight and Mike feared his slippery palms might slide out of his grasp.
Sam and George each grabbed hold of Terry, under the big man’s armpits.
The male lion ended his charge with a leap, his huge paws outstretched, hooked claws extended. Mike felt the tug on Terry’s body and saw the unbelieving fear in his wide eyes. ‘Pull!’ Mike bellowed.
The lion hit the side of the truck with his shoulder and the whole vehicle rocked. His jaws closed and locked around the thick sole of Terry’s hiking boot.
‘Oh God, he’s got me!’
Mike, Sam and George all leaned back as one and, just when they feared they might lose Terry, they crashed back in the cab in a heap, the writhing, screaming Englishman on top of them.
Mike recovered first. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘Oh Jesus. Fucking hell.’ Terry was almost weeping. He pushed himself further away from the open window, back against Sam. ‘It’s not going to climb in and get me, is it?’
Mike shook his head. ‘Relax, Terry. You’re safe now. The lion only noticed you the first time because you put your bloody head up above the truck’s roofline. All he can see now is the silhouette of the vehicle, not what’s inside. They’ve got lousy depth perception. He’s lost sight of you and he’s confused now. Are you OK?’
Kylie knelt by Terry and inspected his foot. ‘You’re fine, Terry. He didn’t break the skin at all.’
Sam sat up. ‘Dude! He took your boot.’
Mike could hardly believe he had almost lost a passenger. It was the most serious incident he had witnessed since starting work as an overland tour guide. ‘Terry, are you all right?’ he asked again.
The big man nodded, the colour slowly returning to his cheeks. He glowered at Nigel.
‘OK, everyone back to their seats. Kylie, would you mind sitting with Terry for a moment?’
‘No problem, Mike,’ she said. ‘Pass us some water, please, Mel.’
Outside, the lion held Terry’s boot down with one paw while he tore at the suede upper with his fangs. When Mike put the truck into gear and they started to move forward, the beast gave a deep roar so loud the metal sides of the cab reverberated.
The lioness, unfazed by the noise and commotion, sidled up to her mate and tugged at his shaggy black mane with her teeth. ‘Good girl,’ Mike whispered to her.
The lion dropped the mangled boot and, with a last backward glance at the truck, reluctantly followed his mate. They walked into long yellow grass and the old man prepared to do his duty again.
Nigel was leaning out the rear window, snapping pictures of the retreating lions with his tiny camera. Mike ran a hand through his hair and then down his face, trying to steady his nerves. Sarah climbed back into her seat next to him. Mike noticed the camera in her hand and recalled the whirr of its motor drive and the searing light of the flash during the rescue. He realised, with dread, that she probably had the whole episode on film.
He pulled the vehicle over once they were well and truly out of sight of the lions, switched off the engine and turned back to face the passengers in the cab.
‘Now listen up, everyone. You too, Nigel,’ he said. ‘I think you can all see now why we don’t lean out the windows.’ A couple of the group managed a chuckle, though most of them were in a mild state of shock at the near disaster they had just witnessed. ‘And why it’s important not to screw around in the back of the truck. Not too much, anyway.’ He deliberately did not look at Nigel or Terry as he delivered his sermon. He hoped they had both got the message. He was pretty sure Terry had.
‘Terry, there’s a doctor at Skukuza. We can get you checked out there,’ Mike added.
‘No, it’s OK,’ Terry said sheepishly. ‘I’m not hurt at all . . . although I near shat myself.’ More of the group laughed now. ‘But it wasn’t your fault, Mike, and I don’t want you having to report this, if that’s all right.’
Mike appreciated the gesture. Nigel remained silent at the back of the truck. ‘Thanks, Terry. Let’s put it behind us, then, OK?’ He returned to his seat and started the engine again.
As soon as they moved off, Sarah dropped her camera in the open bag on the floor near her seat and pulled out her spiral-bound reporter’s notebook. She then left her seat and climbed into the back cab.
Behind him, Mike could hear her interviewing Terry.
‘What was it like? . . . What did you feel when you were on the road? . . . Did you think you were going to die?’
Mike eyed the expensive camera on the floor. He looked back over his shoulder once more, just to make sure she wasn’t looking his way and that no one else could see him as he quickly reached across.
After the morning’s excitement, Mike decided to cut the game drive short. The crew had already seen two of the big five – lion and rhino – in their first two days in Africa, and almost seen one of their number eaten. He wanted to lower their expectations, not raise them. At this rate he’d have to feed Nigel to a leopard at the end of the first week just to keep the rest of the passengers interested. Not an unattractive proposition, he thought, as they drove through the imposing thatch-topped gate into Skukuza Camp.
Skukuza was more like a town than a rest camp. Hundreds of National Parks staff and their families lived there, and it was the park’s administrative and operational headquarters. Big and noisy and crowded – Mike hated the place.
As he drove down the paved road he pointed out the main reception complex to their left. The building was laid out in a horseshoe shape and included a post office, a bank, a bookings office and a car rental agency. Chattering maids in bright printed uniform pinafores and matching headscarves moved in and out of rows of round, thatch-roofed rondavels, gardeners watered and tended immaculate lawns, and sand-coloured National Parks vehicles whizzed past.
They came to a T-junction and Mike swung Nelson off to the left, to a parking area reserved for trucks and buses.
‘OK, the main shop and restaurant are off to the right, the big thatched building over there, and there are toilets and a picnic area just past it. Stretch your legs with a walk along the riverside, if you like. You might see some elephant grazing there.’
He told the passengers to take an hour and a half. In the shop they could buy postcards and stamps, safari clothes, carved wooden animals and other tacky curios, books and maps, food and camping gadgets.
‘I don’t suppose there’s anywhere I can get some film developed, is there?’ Sarah asked.
‘There’s a photo-processing place in the shop,’ Mike said. ‘But the quality is rubbish, so I’ve been told,’ he added quickly.
He suggested the group have brunch in the restaurant or cafeteria, or at least get some snacks for the ride back to Pretoriuskop, which was just under fifty kilometres away. After the morning’s dramas he was tempted to start the day properly, with a beer, but he was the only one allowed to drive the truck.
Terry and George set off for some food and most of the others headed for the souvenir shop. Mike ambled along behind the group and lit a cigarette as he walked. It had been quite a morning and he needed something to settle him down. He sat on the dark log fence that separated the paved car park from the picnic ground and enjoyed his smoke in peace. There was still a slight tremor in his hands, he noticed inspecting the cigarette, as he thought about how close they had come to disaster.
It was a busy day in Skukuza, like any other in the bustling camp, and the car park was full. Many of the spots were taken up by game-viewing vehicles, open-sided four-wheel drives fitted with three or four rows of seats behind the driver and topped with a canvas sunshade. The game viewers ranged from old ex-army Land Rovers
, converted to their new role, to brand-new purpose-built Nissan Safaris. The game viewers and their drivers were waiting for coach-loads of well-heeled foreign tourists, who were ushered by their guides out of their climate-controlled coaches into the open vehicles. There were also private cars and rental cars driven by local South African tourists and independent travellers from around the world.
By the time they returned to Pretoriuskop it was midday. The truck was quiet, and the mood was not helped by the fact that they saw virtually no game on the drive back, save for a small herd of impala and a leopard tortoise. The morning had been cool and overcast, but the sky was now a cloudless blue and the temperature was nudging thirty-five degrees Centigrade.
Sarah sat in icy silence next to Mike all the way from Skukuza. He guessed what was going through her mind, but she didn’t say a single word during the return drive. She flicked through her notebook occasionally, checked her camera often, and stared fixedly through the windscreen.
As they climbed down from the truck at the site, Mike said, ‘There’s a swimming pool on the other side of the camp. It’s a nice day for a dip and we could all use a little cooling off.’
There were a few murmurs of thanks and appreciation, but not enough for his liking. Tension was mounting and, in this heat, he knew it wouldn’t be long before it erupted. Most of the group began drifting off to their tents to change, but Terry, George and Linda were standing in a huddle. Every now and then they pointed in the direction of Nigel’s tent. Mike climbed into the truck to change into his swimming trunks, but only got as far as unzipping his kitbag when he heard angry voices.
‘You stupid Kiwi prick. I’m going to fucking do you! Right fucking now!’ It was Terry.
Mike jogged across to the tents and saw that all eyes were on the Englishman, who was standing outside Nigel’s tent. George stood behind Terry, who was red-faced with rage.
‘Come out, you fucking coward,’ Terry shouted.
Nigel emerged from his tent defiant. ‘What, can’t take a joke, eh? Typical bloody pom. Just chill out, will you.’
As much as Mike wanted to hang back and let nature take its course, he found himself leaping guy-ropes and striding across the little clearing at the centre of the tents. Sam, too, was on an interception course for the two men.
‘You could have killed me!’ Terry screamed. He lashed out with his right fist and landed a blow on Nigel’s jaw. Nigel lurched back, raising his arms to shield his face.
‘Get him, Terry,’ said Linda.
‘Enough,’ Mike said. ‘Cool it. The rest of you back off.’ He stepped between Terry and Nigel and held up an open palm to the Englishman’s fist. Nigel jabbed around Mike with his left, catching Terry in the stomach.
‘Gutless bastard,’ Terry gasped, but he held his punches.
‘I said enough!’ Mike repeated, rounding on the dark-haired New Zealander.
‘This isn’t the way, guys. Just leave it be,’ Sam said. He was at Mike’s back.
Good kid, Mike thought. He chided himself for being surprised that the American boy had the guts to step in and break up a fight.
‘Nigel,’ Mike said, ‘apologise to Terry.’ The way he said it let Nigel know it was an order, not a request. Mike guessed that he would back down, for he believed Nigel was a coward.
‘All right,’ Nigel said, after a moment’s pause. ‘I’m sorry I grabbed you. It was just meant to be a joke, OK?’
Terry did not look convinced, and shook his head.
‘Terry,’ Mike said, turning to him and speaking softly, so only he and Sam could hear, ‘you shouldn’t have been leaning outside the truck and Nigel shouldn’t have been messing around. Let’s call it quits, OK? Help me out on this one.’
Terry hesitated a moment, then nodded his head.
‘Thanks,’ Mike said, and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Nigel, shake,’ he ordered. Nigel obeyed.
‘OK,’ Mike said, turning to the assembled audience. ‘Pool time. I’ll pick up some munchies and some beers for lunch on the way.’
‘Now you’re talking,’ said Mel.
‘Well done, Mike,’ said Jane Muir, smiling. He smiled back.
The rest of the crew got changed and drifted off to the pool, but Jane Muir hung back. She had changed into a one-piece black bathing suit with a plunging neckline. Around her waist she wore a wraparound skirt with the same elephant motif as her singlet top.
‘Can I help you with the shopping?’ she asked.
‘Thanks. Nice skirt, by the way. Where’d you get it, Thailand?’ Mike asked.
‘Thanks for noticing. Laos, actually. Julie and I were there last year.’
She was standing close to him now and he could smell her perfume – a faint musky smell that jump-started several of his nerve endings.
‘Do you travel together often?’ he asked, as they walked across the lawns between the rondavels, towards the camp shop.
‘We’ve been on a few trips. Greece and Turkey, as well as Thailand. It’s not as odd as it seems, you know. We genuinely get on, unlike most mothers and daughters. She hasn’t accused me of cramping her style yet.’
‘What about the other way around?’ he asked.
Jane laughed. ‘I could show her a thing or two. Still a few years left in this old girl. We have a laugh, but I do like to look out for her. She’s all I’ve got.’
She was an attractive woman – vivacious and friendly as well. Mike found it was a nice change talking to someone who wasn’t half his age.
The camp shop was a cool haven stocked with souvenirs, books and food staples. Mike put three six-packs of Lion beer and half-a-dozen packets of crisps into the plastic shopping basket as they walked up and down the aisles.
‘What do you think?’ asked Jane from the next aisle.
Mike looked up from the magazine rack and saw she had tried on a pair of black wraparound sunglasses. The triangular tag bounced on her turned-up nose.
‘Very stylish,’ he said.
‘Not sexy?’ she replied, smiling.
‘The tag doesn’t do it for me.’ He believed this woman was flirting with him. He smiled back at her.
‘Well, I’ll just have to snip the tag off then, won’t I,’ she said, and winked at him when she removed the glasses. ‘I’ll take them,’ she said to the woman working behind the counter.
They walked to the pool in a companionable silence, no more flirting for the time being, although every now and then Jane’s hand seemed to brush his as she swung her shopping bag. She spotted a blue-headed lizard basking on the side of a fig tree and, when she pointed it out to him, she laid a hand on his forearm. Mike remembered Rian’s golden rule and decided it was probably the golden rule for a very good reason. But then, he told himself, all rules were made to be broken.
They arrived at the pool to find the rest of the crew sitting in the shade or sunbathing. As usual, Mike noticed cliques were already developing. The Pretoriuskop pool was his favourite in the park. It was built on the site of a natural spring-fed waterhole and incorporated a large granite rock that was half in and half out of the water.
Nigel was by himself, basking on the top of the rock like a lizard. Terry and George had stopped by the shop on their way and were already into a couple of beers. They sat in the shallow end sipping Castles from the can and throwing their soccer ball to each other. An old Afrikaner couple watched them with ill-concealed loathing. In other circumstances Mike would have told the boys to tone it down a bit, including their language, which was a bit crude at times, but for the moment he was just glad none of the passengers were hitting each other.
Jane left him and walked over to Julie, who was lying on her belly on a towel on the grass. Mike left the beers and the chips with Sam and wandered over to Sarah, who was sitting on her own on a green park bench under a big, shady marula tree. She was reading a glossy South African travel magazine he’d seen on sale in the camp shop. She looked up when she saw him approaching, but there was no welcoming smile.
He couldn’t quite read her face. It was a mixture of suspicion, the usual disdain, and puzzlement. ‘How’s things?’ he asked.
‘You weren’t happy about me taking pictures this morning, were you?’ she said.
‘It was a tense situation. Terry was at risk. Taking snapshots didn’t help the rescue effort.’
‘It would be very embarrassing, wouldn’t it, if my magazine published pictures of one of your tourists falling out of the truck and nearly being eaten by a lion?’
‘It would be more embarrassing if the lion had actually got him and not his shoe,’ Mike said.
‘But it would reflect badly on you. You might lose your job, your licence or accreditation, or whatever qualification you have. That’s what worried you, wasn’t it?’
‘You’ve seen our brochures. We tell our customers we’ll get them close to Africa’s wildlife,’ he replied.
She didn’t smile. ‘I had the roll of film in my camera developed at Skukuza this morning while the others were buying their naff souvenirs. Do you know what I saw when I got that roll of film back from the photo shop?’
‘No,’ he lied.
‘I wonder if you do. Nothing. Nothing is what I saw. It seems the entire film was blank. I was quite terse with the man behind the counter, you know.’
He could picture her being quite terse. ‘I can imagine.’
‘He suggested maybe I had given him an unexposed roll by mistake, instead of an exposed roll.’
‘Possible,’ Mike said.
‘Impossible,’ she said, staring into his eyes.
Fortunately he was wearing sunglasses. ‘Not much of a story without pictures, I suppose,’ he said. Her eyes were cold, as he’d noticed before, but they were also captivating.
‘I had pictures on that roll of you dragging Terry back into that truck, not to mention some very nice pictures of the mating lions. Pictures can be used selectively, and can tell a story in any number of ways. A cock-up can be made to look like an act of bravery,’ she said.
‘But we’ll never know now, will we, how you would have used those pictures.’
