Safari

by Parnell Hall

  I kept my eyes on the ground, hoping to spot some track Alice had missed. I’d have had a better chance of flying to the moon. The only thing that kept me from falling behind was our spotter Daniel, whose job was to bring up the rear. Today Daniel had an even younger man along, who turned out to be his apprentice.

  In a clear area of the dirt path, John stopped and called us around. “See?” he said.

  I looked and didn’t see at all. Instead of the usual animal track, there was nothing there.

  I was about to stick my neck out and say what, when Keith said it for me.

  John pointed. “The hole.”

  I looked closer. There was indeed a hole. I hadn’t seen it because it was the size of a pencil lead. It looked that way too, slightly funneled as if someone had stuck the tip of a pencil in the ground.

  “Do you know what that is?”

  No one did.

  John took out a hunting knife I hadn’t realized he was carrying, punched it into the earth next to the hole, and pried up. He sifted the dirt with his hands, smiled brightly, and pointed to his palm. Wriggling there was a tiny bug.

  “Ant lion,” he said proudly.

  It took me a second to realize this was the lion he had promised we would find first. I was disappointed, though ‘disappointed’ is not the right word. ‘Betrayed’ seemed too harsh. But I’d been duped and I wasn’t happy about it, and whatever joy there was at finding this tiny lion was totally eclipsed by the feeling he was an imposter and not at all what I’d expected.

  John, meanwhile, had swung into full lecture mode, probably enjoying the freedom of being out from under Clemson’s thumb. The ant lion, I was learning, had dug this funnel-shaped hole expressly for the purpose of trapping unwary ants, who never seemed to learn that this was the reason the holes were there, despite the fact that they were dug for no other purpose. I supposed the slow learning curve could be excused for the fact that the ants that did learn were eaten before they could profit from their experience.

  The ant lion was a member of the Little 5, which included the buffalo weaver, a bird; the leopard tortoise, a turtle; the elephant shrew, a small, insect-eating mammal; and the rhino beetle, another bug.

  The Big 5 were the lion, leopard, elephant, Cape buffalo, and rhinoceros. The giraffe was missing because the term was coined to refer to the five most dangerous game to hunt.

  The Big and Little 5 were essentially just a marketing ploy to hype the tours, but that didn’t stop John from waxing eloquent about the ferocious ant lion, too small to see.

  “Take your binoculars,” John told Alice.

  Alice frowned quizzically. “You want me to look at it with binoculars?”

  “Turn them around.”

  “Huh?”

  “Turn the binoculars around. Turn them around the other way. Let the lion look at you.”

  “You gotta be kidding,” I said.

  Alice unsnapped her binoculars from the harness and turned them upside down.

  “Close one eye,” John said. “Look at the lion with the other eye.”

  Alice did as she was told, aimed the eyepiece of the binoculars at the tiny creature. “Oh, my goodness!” she said. “Stanley, it’s like looking in a microscope.”

  “Oh, come on,” I said. I took the binoculars, closed my eye, and looked.

  It wasn’t a microscope, but it was the next best thing. The magnification was incredible. I could actually see the damn thing. It had nasty looking pincers to do an ant in. I wondered how big an ant would look under the binoculars. It would be like the movie Them.

  All right, it wasn’t as good as a real lion, but I figured I should let John off the hook.

  A little further along, John held up his hand and we stopped.

  In the clearing ahead was a giraffe. He was reaching his long neck up to eat the leaves off a tree.

  That was more like it. I slung the backpack off my shoulders, fumbled for the video camera. I clicked it on, focused, zoomed in.

  Alice had her camera out, but she wasn’t shooting anything.

  “What’s the matter?” I said.

  “We’re facing into the sun.”

  I wondered if that meant I shouldn’t be shooting video either. I was getting a picture on my screen. I stopped filming, though. I had a shot of the giraffe eating leaves. I could turn it on again if he did something else.

  “Come,” John said quietly, beckoning with his hand. “Try not to scare him.”

  We crept across the clearing. We were fifty yards away from the giraffe and he hadn’t seen us yet. I wondered how close we could get before he did.

  The answer was pretty damn close. The giraffe got taller and taller as we cut the distance in half. The angle wasn’t bad. Cameras were raised, shots fired.

  Keith edged past Alice to get a closer shot.

  The giraffe’s head swiveled on its long neck, and it galloped away on long, spindly legs. Wouldn’t you know it, I hadn’t turned on the camera yet.

  I was pissed. Not at missing the shot. At Alice missing the shot. I didn’t give a damn about photography and she did. It wasn’t fair that just as she got the shot lined up, the schmuck would spoil it.

  The minute I had that thought, I was seized with doubt. I felt a sudden chill. It was my mind tying itself in torturous knots. Was I really angry on Alice’s behalf? Or was that an automatic defense mechanism to mask my own feeling of resentment toward the young man for being successful with the young woman who was unavailable to me?

  Of course, at that point it didn’t matter which.

  I was angry at myself just for wondering.

  12

  LUNCH

  WE NEVER FOUND A LION, but then neither did Clemson. Small victory there. The other group hadn’t done better. Who would have thought such petty jealousies were possible? But having spent your entire life savings to get here, you wanted something more than just a bug in someone’s palm.

  “Where did the lions go?” I asked Alice 2 as we gathered for lunch by the river. Lunch was some chicken and rice dish. If it was African, I wouldn’t have known it. I didn’t care. I’d have eaten sawdust if we’d seen a lion.

  “I don’t know. We lost the tracks just outside of camp.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Giraffes. Warthogs.”

  “We didn’t see warthogs.”

  “They’re cute in an ugly sort of way.”

  “Interesting way to put it,” I said. “Are you a writer?”

  She laughed. “Goodness, no. I’m a lawyer.”

  “What kind of law?”

  “I’m retired now. I did corporate law. Dull, but profitable. Are you a lawyer?”

  My laugh was similar to hers when I asked if she was a writer. “No. I work for one, though. Negligence lawyer.”

  “Oh? Who?”

  “Richard Rosenberg.”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “Then you’re not from New York.”

  “Minneapolis.”

  “New York lawyers know him. They stay away from him.”

  “He’s that bad?”

  “He’s that good. If he goes to court, he wins.”

  “So what did you see?”

  “Giraffe. A few elephants.”

  Lolita’s mother looked up from her chicken and rice. “We got trapped by an elephant.”

  I was surprised. Not that an elephant had trapped them. But the woman was talking to me, and in a friendly, conversational way, rather than regarding me as pond scum. I’d avoided the empty seat between the two women when I sat down, and not just to leave room for my wife.

  “Really,” I said. “So you went around him?”

  “That wasn’t an option,” Alice 2 said.

  Lolita’s mother concurred. “No. He’d seen us. He was interested. When that happens, you can’t run or he’ll charge.”

  “What did you do?”

  “It was scary. Sampson cocked his gun.”

  I assumed Sampson was their ranger. �
��Really?”

  “He wasn’t going to shoot him,” Alice 2 said. “Just fire in the air and scare him.”

  “I didn’t hear a shot.”

  “He didn’t have to. Clemson clapped his hands and drove him away.”

  “But it was scary,” Lolita’s mother persisted. “When he ran at us.”

  “The elephant charged you?” I said.

  “It was nothing. Sampson threw the bolt and Clemson clapped his hands.” Alice 2 lowered her voice. “Mowangi wasn’t happy. About Clemson taking charge.”

  “He had to,” Lolita’s mother said. “The elephant was coming right at us! Right at us!” She seemed to be getting worked up as she relived the incident. I wondered if it was for her or for her daughter she was scared.

  As if on cue, Lolita plunked herself down in the empty seat. “What are you talking about?”

  “That awful elephant.”

  “The elephant was fine. We weren’t in any danger.”

  “Sampson thought we were. He cocked his gun.”

  “He said why. He wasn’t going to shoot the elephant. He was going to shoot in the air.”

  “I don’t like guns.”

  Ah. Another non NRA supporter. In her case, that didn’t necessarily make her left-wing. She probably didn’t like sex, drugs, or rock and roll either.

  Both Hells Angels splashed down on my right. That was okay with me. Alice hadn’t even gotten her plate yet. She’d gone out to the jeep to plug in her battery charger. Bush camp had no charging station, in fact no electric facilities of any kind. A power strip in the jeep was used for charging, and it could only handle two batteries at a time when the jeep wasn’t running. At least that was the limit allowed, and I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to challenge it. A jeep with a dead battery was the last thing we needed. Even with limited use, they were taking no chances. They revved the engine a few minutes every hour to keep the battery charged.

  Keith came over with a plate of food. The young man seemed miffed that the seat next to Lolita was taken. He wasn’t about to sit next to Mommy. He plunked down next to Hells Angel #2. “What’s this about an elephant?”

  “Came right at us,” Hells Angel #2 said. I wondered if she was the amorous one. She was sitting next to Keith, but then he’d sat down next to her.

  “Charged by an elephant,” he said. “That must have been fun.” He wasn’t just talking to the Hells Angels, he was talking loud enough for Lolita to hear, and glancing covetously in her direction.

  Alice sat down next to Lolita’s mother. “I hear you had quite an adventure with an elephant.”

  As Mommy turned to Alice, Lolita put her hands up in a please-not-again gesture. I bristled. It was okay for Keith to bring it up, but just let Alice horn in on the conversation. On the other hand, Alice’s remark set Mommy off again, and we went through another we-were-almost-killed tirade.

  Clemson pulled up a chair and chimed in as if he’d just heard his cue. “Nonsense. We were never in any danger. Clemson Safari is the safest in the world. Never had an accident, and never will.” He smiled, spread his arms. “Can’t afford to be sued.”

  He was joking, of course, but I couldn’t help thinking of the suit Richard Rosenberg might file if I were killed by an elephant. “You’ve never had any accidents at all?” I said.

  “Depends what you mean by accidents. A guy slipped climbing out of the jeep and broke his leg. We set out steps, but this was in the bush, the guy wanted to mark his territory and didn’t want to wait for them. He was in a hurry and he slipped.”

  “And broke his leg?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “He still managed to mark his territory?”

  “Yes, but not the territory he wanted to mark. Aside from that we’ve had the usual number of cuts and scrapes, but nothing serious. And no one’s been hurt by an animal.”

  I wish he hadn’t said that. You don’t talk about it when a guy’s throwing a perfect game. Even the sportscasters won’t mention it. They’ll talk all around the subject, like giving the line score, no runs, no hits, no errors, or saying the so-and-sos are looking for their first base runner, but they’ll never say the pitcher’s throwing a perfect game. It just isn’t done. It’s the biggest no-no in baseball, to jinx a pitcher throwing a perfect game by talking about it. The players wouldn’t even mention it, and if they did, they wouldn’t mention it to him. If you see a pitcher who has a perfect game going sitting on the bench while his team is batting, there’s never anyone sitting next to him. No one will go near him. They’re afraid they’ll say something to inadvertently jinx the poor guy.

  And one thing that will never, ever happen is the pitcher mentioning it. He won’t say, Hey, I’m throwing a perfect game. Not unless he’s the biggest arrogant schmuck to come down the pike. A mindless, clueless, muscle-bound freak, who has a good fastball and no common sense. But anyone else, he’d rather cut off his right arm than mention it. Because it is the kiss of death.

  I suppose I could forgive Clemson. He was South African. Presumably never followed baseball. What did they play, cricket? They were British enough in other ways, drove on the wrong side of the road. Even so, whether he knew baseball or not, it just wasn’t done.

  Clemson had bragged that he was throwing a perfect game.

  That couldn’t be good.

  13

  SAUSAGE FRUIT

  JOHN COULDN’T FIND DANIEL. WE didn’t know it at first, but that was why the next morning’s hike was late. Alice and I didn’t know because we were in Mowangi’s group. His spotter and ranger were there, so as far as I knew we were set to go.

  Clemson had pulled John and Mowangi aside and was talking to them in quiet intensity. He did not look happy, and that was saying something, because Clemson always looked happy. But the hail-fellow-well-met, this-is-my-tour-so-I-named-it-after-me was having a hard time of it, and from what I could see he was passing it along.

  Eventually it filtered down to us that Daniel wasn’t here. It was the wife of the other couple, whose water bottle was hanging down the wrong way so I couldn’t see her name, who brought us the news. Her husband had run back to his tent for some memory, which sounds weird to me, but just means a little chip for his camera instead of a roll of film, and he had walked close enough to the group to hear what they were saying. Apparently Clemson, for all his other accomplishments, was not fluent enough in the local language and was conversing with the guides in English.

  “He’s blaming John,” the husband said. “Isn’t that a little harsh? I mean, if the kid doesn’t show up on time, is that John’s fault? For all he knows, the boy just wandered off.”

  “Wandered off where?” Lolita said. “We’re in the bush. It’s not like there’s some card game or strip club he could wander off to.”

  Her mother was shocked. “Really! How can you joke? The poor young man. Something must have happened to him.”

  “Oh, I’m sure nothing happened to him,” I said.

  But I’d have felt much better about it if Clemson hadn’t been bragging about his perfect game. If anything happened to Daniel, it was going to be his fault.

  “I’m sure he’ll show up,” Alice said.

  Daniel didn’t show up, and his apprentice was pressed into service. I wondered if he’d be nervous. It was like the understudy going on for the star. Or to keep the baseball analogy going, like the minor leaguer being called up to the Show. Actually, it shouldn’t be that hard. While spotting animals on the night drive might be an art, from what I’d seen the day before the spotter’s job on the hikes was mainly being last in line so any animal sneaking up from behind would eat him first. I figured Daniel’s replacement was up to the task.

  Mowangi’s group consisted of me and Alice, Lolita and her mother, and the two Hells Angels. Then there was Mowangi’s ranger, whose name I didn’t remember despite having heard it the day before, and Mowangi’s spotter, also nameless. The spotter had no apprentice. I didn’t know who would fill in if he ran off.

>   Mowangi and John mixed it up by setting off in the opposite directions from which they’d gone the day before, which was great for them, and not so much for me and Alice, who wound up going the same way we had gone with John. Mowangi didn’t bother pointing out the ant lion holes. I wondered if he’d done it the day before, assuming there were ant lions in that direction.

  He did point out an elephant we hadn’t seen walking with John. Of course he didn’t have much choice, it was right in our path. I could see Lolita’s mother tense up. She must have thought the damn things were stalking her. The elephant made no attempt to charge us. He looked slightly bored. He turned and wandered away into the bush.

  Behind me I could hear Alice calling the elephant names under her breath. I turned, saw that she hadn’t gotten her camera out in time.

  The path having been cleared, Mowangi resumed the walk.

  As we started up again, I noticed Hells Angel #2 talking to Lolita. I wondered if she was the amorous one. If so, I wondered if her sister meant she was a sex-crazed lesbian. Or at least bisexual. That would figure. Lolita was enough to turn any woman bisexual.

  I wanted to ask Alice if I’d correctly identified the amorous Hells Angel, but she was busy fiddling with her camera. Apparently you couldn’t just point and shoot, there was a lot of fine tuning, something about f-stops and overexposures, stuff I don’t understand. There’s a lot of stuff I don’t understand. I was born not understanding.

  A short while later, Mowangi spotted an African Hawk-Eagle. It was a good spot. There were hawks and eagles listed in the field guide, but to rack up two with one blow was impressive. The Hawk-Eagle wasn’t doing anything, just sleeping on a high branch, but I figured it still counted.

  I was quite impressed with Mowangi’s powers of observation. I wondered what the next thing would be that we would find.

  I was rooting for a lion, but I wasn’t holding my breath.

  We came into a clearing I recognized from the day before. There was a sausage-fruit tree in it, and it was even more impressive than the one I had seen from the jeep. The sausage fruit were tremendous. They looked like salamis. And not Genoa salamis, but larger, like big bolognas. John had cautioned us not to walk under them, though the admonition was hardly necessary. I’d have sooner walked under a construction site.