by Tony Park
‘No. And I’ll never know just what went wrong with my camera today. But if I find out, I’ll be sure and let you know.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, turning to leave.
‘And Mike,’ she called. He turned. ‘If it turns out someone tampered with my camera, I’d make sure their employer was informed. Ham-fisted attempts at censorship would probably add a nice angle to my story, in fact. Pictures or no pictures.’
Mike nodded and walked back to where the rest of the party had descended on the chips like a flock of vultures. The film canister in his left breast pocket felt like a lead weight around his neck.
9
Mike drove the overland truck north from Pretoriuskop to Satara Camp, where the group stopped for lunch. Storm clouds were gathering in the hills around Pretoriuskop and he was glad they packed when they did. The canvas tents used on the tours were strong and durable, but not as waterproof as the cheaper, lighter, nylon version. The last thing any of the touchy tourists needed now was a night in damp sleeping bags.
On the drive north he spotted a trio of cheetah crossing the road as they neared the Paul Kruger Tablets, a couple of plaques commemorating the founding of the park, stuck on to an enormous boulder. The mother cheetah and her two grown cubs scooted past the vehicle warily. One of the cubs was a little curious and stayed for a few moments in the long grass after he had crossed the road, crouched low and giving the truck a good once over before his mother gave a little squeak and he bounded off to join her.
From Satara they continued north to Letaba, a beautiful camp teeming with bird and animal life of its own and richly entwined in thick, dark green tropical plants and trees. Bushbuck, small antelope with delicate features and milk-chocolate coats painted with chalky stripes, wandered among the huts, and elephant drank or browsed in the riverbed below the camp.
While the rest of the group adjourned to cold drinks and hot pies at the restaurant overlooking the broad Letaba River, Mike wandered over to the Elephant Hall, a museum where park visitors could learn virtually everything there was to know about the mighty pachyderms.
The museum was air-conditioned, cool and inviting. A young brunette woman in a sleeveless National Parks uniform seated at the reception desk smiled at Mike as he entered. Around the wall were pictures of Kruger’s original magnificent seven, the biggest tuskers in South Africa – probably in all of Africa – along with their actual tusks. There were also displays on poaching and anti-poaching, including an information panel on Fanie Theron’s Animal Protection Unit, and photographs of the significant bulls still alive in the park today plus a few that were recently deceased. Mike finally found Skukuza’s picture, the second last near the exit door.
The elephant was not as Mike remembered him, with his ears back, trunk down, bleeding and bellowing. Instead, his photo showed him grazing contentedly at a waterhole at the foot of the Lebombo Hills, which follow the Mozambican border. Mike wondered if the poachers who killed him had stood in this exact same spot and chosen the old bull because of the information thoughtfully provided by the well-meaning architects of the Elephant Hall.
‘Skukuza can often be seen in the area around the Grootvlei waterhole, in the north-east of the park,’ read the information panel below his picture. And perhaps this further gem of information had sealed his fate: ‘Most elephants favour one tusk over the other – this is sometimes referred to as the “working tusk” and is usually significantly shorter than the other as it has been worn down over a number of years. Skukuza is one of a small percentage of “ambidextrous” elephants who use both tusks. This accounts for the fact that both of his magnificent tusks are of equal length and diameter.’
Below the original information panel, which had yellowed with time, was a new laminated sign printed on white paper. It read: ‘Sadly, Skukuza was killed by poachers, believed to be from Mozambique. His tusks were stolen and have yet to be recovered.’ There was nothing about the Mozambican ranger who was killed as well, and Mike was angry that the National Parks officials seemed too keen to blame the elephant’s death on some dirt-poor villager from a neighbouring country. If Fanie’s theory was right, Skukuza was killed by a highly organised gang, possibly from this very country.
Mike remembered the dust and the overpowering smell of the bull elephant as he thundered down the track towards him and Carlos. He felt the recoil of the AK-47 in his shoulder again and he recalled the blind panic as the firing pin clicked on the nothingness of the empty chamber. He remembered Carlos turning to him and then falling onto the uncovered landmine. Mike reached out to the picture and touched the spot on the elephant’s big knobbly forehead where he had seen his bullet strike. He closed his eyes and let the memories wash over him.
When he opened them and turned for the door, Mike saw Sarah standing there. She looked at him for a long moment and seemed about to say something, then thought better of it. She turned and wandered off to look at an information display with a cross-section of an elephant’s foot.
Mike walked out into the lengthening afternoon shadows and put his sunglasses on. He was grateful she hadn’t spoken.
They continued their journey the following day, on the good tar road that ran the length of the park, through kilometre after kilometre of shoulder-high bush. Big fires had swept through this part of the park in recent months, and nature was busily re-establishing the endless mopani forests. Here and there big bull elephants stuck incongruously up out of the juvenile trees, silhouetted black against the red-gold dawn sky.
North of Mopani Camp, Mike stopped the truck beside a large man-made boulder with a plaque fixed to it.
‘What’s this, then?’ George asked from the back of the truck.
‘The Tropic of Capricorn,’ Mike said.
A couple of the tourists dutifully took photos and Kylie tried to explain to Linda where the Tropic of Capricorn passed through Queensland in Australia. Mike stared out to the east, towards Mozambique, and remembered a morning of death and the end of a dream that took place on the same arbitrary line drawn on a map.
‘Can you see anything out there?’ Sarah asked.
‘Nothing. Nothing at all,’ he said, as he put the truck into gear.
They stopped that night at Shingwedzi Camp, on the river of the same name, in the far north of the Kruger park. Mike parked the truck under an umbrella thorn tree, close to the swimming pool at the far end of the camping ground; he then spent a hot, frustrating hour banging in tent pegs, and bending a few in the process, into hard-baked earth. The name ‘Shingwedzi’ means ‘place of ironstone’. The name was a good one, he thought, as he wiped the sweat from his face and swung the hammer again.
The overlanders compensated for their lack of success in finding a leopard with early drinks around the camp’s swimming pool, where Mike gratefully sluiced off his midday sweat. Dinner that night was a hearty braai of steak and sausages, foil-wrapped baked potatoes and salads. Mike found he was getting on well with everyone, except for Nigel and Sarah, who both gave him a wide berth. But then, they gave everyone a wide berth.
When the two outsiders retreated to their tents, the mood of the group always relaxed noticeably. They were seated around a blazing campfire, nursing drinks and laughing. A spotted hyena loped past the camping ground’s electrified fence looking for bones and food scraps, but Mike discouraged any of the group from feeding the animal.
He had already finished off a six-pack of Lion lagers and was sipping cheap South African brandy from a plastic coffee cup when Mel pulled out a joint. Mike passed on the marijuana as he was experiencing enough of a buzz from the alcohol, but noticed Jane, who was sitting next to him, never missed the opportunity for a toke when it came her way. A couple of times, when Jane leaned over to pass the joint to Terry, she let her leg rub against Mike’s or laid a hand on his knee to steady herself.
Julie had elbowed Sarah out of the front cab for a couple of hours that morning and, true to her request on the first night, had interviewed Mike about his job for the
travel feature she had to write for her studies. Like her mother, she was friendly and outgoing. She asked straightforward questions about his experiences driving an overland truck, the countries he’d seen and the ups and downs of the job. Another trait she had apparently inherited from her mother was a tendency to touch people to emphasise things when she spoke. He had thought Jane had been flirting with him, but now wondered whether both mother and daughter were simply very extroverted people.
‘Tell us about your first time. Your first sexual experience,’ said Jane.
Mike coughed as his brandy went down the wrong way. There were laughs all around the fire. The conversation was getting more and more outrageous as the night wore on and Jane had just upped the ante.
‘Boy or girl?’ asked Linda with mock seriousness. Everybody laughed.
The stories tumbled out of embarrassed, drunk and stoned mouths. Back seat of a car, village green, high school dance, sand dune.
‘Where’s Sarah?’ asked Linda, draining another glass of South African white wine.
‘The virgin?’ said Mel.
‘Bitchy,’ replied Julie.
‘What about our Nigel?’ asked George aloud.
‘Baa-ah,’ said Terry, doing a credible sheep impersonation.
‘What about you, Jane? You started this,’ said Terry, lighting yet another joint.
Jane swirled her wine in her plastic cup and looked up at the stars, then across to Julie. ‘Julie’s dad,’ she said softly, and there was silence around the fire. ‘I was sixteen, he was seventeen. He was lead guitarist in a covers band and I used to sneak into the nightclubs around Bristol to watch him play.’
‘Tell the rest, Mum,’ Julie said earnestly, laying a hand on her mother’s knee.
‘Well . . . When I found out I was pregnant I thought he’d run, but he surprised me. Said he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. I was going to be in terrible trouble with my folks – and I was, in the end – so we decided to elope. I packed my bag and waited for him to come fetch me in the middle of the night. We lived in a small village then, way out in the countryside. It was winter. The roads were icy. He rode a motorbike.’
Mike could see Jane’s hands gripping the cup tightly and she looked up into the star-filled sky again.
‘He’d been gigging that night and when he didn’t show up I thought he’d changed his mind and done a runner.’
‘But he hadn’t,’ said Julie.
‘No. He hit a patch of black ice and ran into a parked lorry. Not a mile from our house. Julie never met her dad.’
There was silence around the fire now. Some of them looked up at the stars, others gazed into the flames.
‘It’s OK, you know,’ Julie said to no one in particular. ‘From Mum I’ve only got good memories of my father.’
‘How about a refill, Mike, before everyone gets too maudlin,’ Jane said. ‘And you can tell us about your first love,’ she added, trying to sound brighter.
‘It was so long ago I can’t remember,’ he lied. He looked at Jane and she just smiled back at him.
The numbers around the fire slowly dwindled.
‘So, was there ever a true love in your life?’ Jane asked again, quietly. The other stayers, Linda, Terry and George, were engaged in their own conversation, about football, on the other side of the fire.
‘One. But I don’t want to talk about it, if that’s all right,’ he said.
‘Strong silent type, eh? Typical Aussie,’ Jane said, tipping the last of the half-bottle of brandy into their mugs. She put a hand on his thigh to steady herself as she poured, and, despite his inebriation, he was acutely aware of the warmth of her hand, the smell of her perfume.
He just nodded, and they both laughed. He knew he had drunk too much, but he opened them both another can of beer once they finished their brandy.
The paraffin lantern hanging off the back of the truck started to gutter at one in the morning and Mike didn’t bother refilling it. He realised he might set fire to himself if he tried, given the state he was in.
‘I think we’d better call it a night,’ he said to Jane. The others had just left them.
‘It’s a night,’ she said, giggling.
Even drunk, Mike was a light sleeper. The rocking of the truck, slight as it was, woke him immediately. He was lying on the floor, in the aisle between the seats near the back. He fumbled under the rolled-up fleece he used as a pillow for his mini torch.
He could see a slight form standing in the aisle, silhouetted against the starlight outside. The figure crept closer, but he didn’t switch on the torch. He doubted it was a thief, as the South African national parks are all but crime-free. He could see the swell of her hips now, her shapely legs. His heart rate went into overdrive.
‘Hi, it’s only me,’ Jane whispered. ‘Did I wake you? Sorry. I felt like some company.’
She padded the length of the cab in white socks now coated with the camping ground’s gritty sand. Her feet made tiny scratching sounds on the tin floor of the cab. She was wearing a long, baggy T-shirt and shorts.
‘Mind if I sit down?’
He ran a hand through his long hair, which was hanging loose, brushing it off his eyes. ‘Sure – I mean, no, I don’t mind at all,’ he said, moving as far across the narrow aisle as he could to make room for her.
‘It was all that talk about first loves and all,’ she whispered as she slid her back down the rear wall of the cab and landed with a soft thud on her backside on his sleeping mat. She pulled her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs. ‘I know I started it, but it gets me down, when I think about the past and what might have been. Do you ever feel that way?’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t give much away, do you?’ she asked, turning to stare hard into his eyes. Her lips stayed slightly parted and he could smell the alcohol on her breath and sweet marijuana smoke in her hair.
‘No.’
‘Tell me if you want me to leave now.’
‘I’m not sure, Jane. We’ve both had a bit to drink.’
She moved a finger to his lips. ‘Shush. I know, but I’m not feeling drunk now, are you?’
He knew what she had gone through, losing her boyfriend, and his heart hurt for her. He thought of Isabella and of the rule about sleeping with passengers. He was about to protest, but his body betrayed him.
Jane leaned closer, moved her finger from his lips and traced a line from his mouth, slowly down over his chest and belly. Lower. She smiled and placed her lips on his, her hand tracing him now, through his shorts.
Mike reached a hand behind her head, his fingers tingling at the feel of silky female hair for the first time in too long, and drew her to him. He pressed his lips hard against hers. She opened her mouth and he felt her hot tongue probing his mouth.
They lowered themselves to the warm sleeping bag. Jane broke from the kiss for a brief moment to lift his T-shirt over his head. He slid his hands up under hers and felt warm skin, soft breasts and nipples that stiffened instantly to his touch. She pulled her shirt up and he shifted his mouth to her breast. She moaned low as he bit down on the protruding nipple.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Please.’
She fumbled with his shorts and giggled as hers finally came unstuck from her feet, toes pointed high in the air. She was naked underneath and the dull gold of her pubic hair was caught in a moonbeam through the window. When he touched her she was wet already. She arched her back and ground her pubis into his hand as his finger circled her hard little clitoris. He saw she was biting her lower lip and she was breathing heavily. After a moment she shifted her body. Awkwardly, for it was cramped between the seats, she rose to her knees and turned her back to him.
Mike reached out for her, but she knew what she was doing. She spread her legs and placed her knees on the floor of the truck on either side of his chest, opening herself to him. He shut his eyes in a moment of ecstasy as he felt her hot mouth close around him.
When they wer
e both near to orgasm she turned again on her knees. He grabbed her forearms and pulled her to him, thrusting his tongue into her mouth as they kissed again.
She broke the kiss. ‘I can taste myself,’ she purred.
She lowered herself onto him and he guided her with his hands on her hips as she slid rhythmically up and down.
He drank in the sight, the feel and the taste of her and she moved, faster and faster, above him, eyes closed and head back. Her pelvic muscles squeezed and twitched involuntarily and, as she gripped his shoulders hard with her hands, he came too, for the first time in a long time.
Mike woke up alone and hungover. He lit a cigarette before getting out of his sleeping bag. Even through the smoke he could still taste her. He ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes. ‘Shit,’ he mouthed.
They had done it again and Jane had fallen asleep in his arms. God, she had felt good. Like a miracle balm to soothe his pains. In the cool dawn, he told himself she had been good for him. But now he felt guilty. Stupid, he knew, because Isabella had been gone for a year now and at some point he had to move on.
They met over coffee. There was no early morning drive planned, just a leisurely transit to Punda Maria Camp in the bushy north of the park, where they would spend one more night before crossing into Zimbabwe. She smiled at him as she accepted the cup. No one else was with them. A couple of the crew were showering, the others still sleeping. Sarah had gone for a power-walk around the inside of the perimeter fence.
‘Do you want to say it, or should I?’ Jane asked, both hands wrapped around the steaming mug.
She was wearing a fleece and jeans. Her fair hair was tousled, her eyes red, although she still managed to look sexy, he thought. But there were complications. She had a daughter and lived in England. He imagined there had been other holiday romances, and that was all they were. ‘Say what?’ he asked.
‘About last night . . .’ She laughed. Forced, too loud.
He smiled back at her. ‘What should I say? Thanks? I’m out of practice at this sort of thing.’
