2 Game Drive

by Marie Moore

  George and Connie joined us at the bar along with the two travel insurance reps from California, Chase and Rich, who said their home was in L.A. They introduced us all to Fernando, a tall, dark, and witty group tour representative for Alitalia. Fernando was based in Rome. We took an immediate liking to all of them, and everyone had the same idea that Jay and I had about finding a good group for the game drives, so it looked like we were set.

  Chase and Rich were thirtyish, edgy, also tanned and fit, with highlighted blond hair. They had taken obvious care in their wardrobe selection for the evening. The cuffs of their crisp shirtsleeves were folded back just so to reveal expensive designer watches. The creases in their trousers were sharp. Nothing they wore looked as if it had come from a suitcase after a transatlantic flight. Our hotel was within walking distance of the restaurant. Chase and Rich had asked to be let off at the hotel to dress for dinner instead of going straight on to the restaurant from the tour like the rest of us. Jay’s heart probably skipped a beat when he heard their request. Eager for a drink and a meal, he hadn’t thought of changing.

  Both of them might have just stepped out of an ad. They looked so much alike that it was difficult to keep them straight.

  Chase was a little taller than Rich, and his eyes were brown instead of blue. I noticed one distinct difference between the two: Chase had a long ugly scar on the side of his neck that he said came from a childhood attack by a vicious dog. That traumatic encounter had left him deathly afraid of animals. He said Rich had had to convince him that it would be safe to go on safari.

  “Don’t feel bad about that, Chase,” said Jay, sipping a mango martini. “I’m not nuts about wild animals, either. I want to call nine-one-one if I see so much as a rat in the subway. But I wasn’t going to pass up a chance to go on safari. A safari is about as glamorous as it gets, don’t you think? I expect the game lodge people will keep us all pretty safe. I hope so, anyway.”

  Jay was playing it super cool in front of the California agents, acting blasé about his genuine fear of wild animals. I knew the real story. He had voiced his concerns to me over coffee right after we got this assignment. Jay had considered turning Silverstein down, but he couldn’t stand missing out on any fun. Plus, there was the glamour factor and the certainty of great stories that would fuel his cocktail conversation for years to come.

  I could tell that Jay was intimidated by the splendor of the California agents’ attire. Right after we ordered drinks, he excused himself and disappeared down a hallway. When he came back from the men’s room, he had tousled his hair and popped his collar.

  “Great look,” I whispered, “love the collar.”

  “Shut up, just shut up. Your idea of a fashion statement is a hoopskirt.”

  He ignored me then, so I sat on the opposite side of the table next to Fernando Corelli, the Alitalia rep.

  Fernando was tall and lean, but he was also muscular. I knew that he was quite strong, because I had watched him lift Wendy and Tilda’s heavy suitcases with ease, as if they weighed nothing. He had short, curly dark hair and eyes with long lashes, classic Roman features, and a clever, sarcastic wit. He spoke very good English, but with a heavy Italian accent. He wore his European-cut clothing with that cool nonchalance that Jay constantly dreamed of attaining.

  Fernando had a deep tan, as if he spent a lot of time working outdoors. That seemed kind of strange for an airline rep, but he told us he rode a bicycle to and from work every day, so maybe that explained it.

  He was very amusing, particularly when recounting his description of his ferry ride over to Robben Island. He had become separated from our group, and had ridden over on the ferry sandwiched in with the members of a holiday group of South Africans in native dress from the Limpopo River region. They had apparently mistaken handsome Fernando for some soccer star, a misidentification that he relished and did not correct until the photo requests overwhelmed him.

  “I confessed then that I was not who they thought I was, but it was no use. They were convinced that they were correct and that I was just lying. I thought I would never escape. That’s why it took me so long to find you and rejoin the tour.”

  “People think I am a celebrity, too,” said Jay. “Happens all the time.”

  Please.

  I tried to meet his eyes, but he wouldn’t look my way.

  “Where is the Limpopo River, y’all?” Connie asked. “I swear I heard that name somewhere before. I don’t know where. Limpopo. I like how it sounds. Lim-po-po.”

  “Think of Kipling, tesore,” Fernando said. “Remember, ‘The Elephant’s Child’? When his insatiable curiosity took him to ‘the dark, grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees ...’ ”

  “Nah,” Connie said. “I never saw it. Must not have made it to the Metroplex. Maybe it’ll be on TV.”

  “Maybe,” Fernando said, breaking into an easy smile.

  * * *

  After dinner, I strolled back along the Waterfront from the restaurant to the hotel with Fernando and George. The reflection of lights glimmered on the water. Commercial fishing boats and private yachts tied up along the piers creaked and rocked against their moorings on the outgoing tide. Strains of music mingled with conversation and laughter as people lingered over drinks and coffee in the candlelit, open-air cafés lining the pier.

  Fernando, George, and I were calling it a night. Jay, Chase, Rich, and Connie had all declared that the evening was far from over. They announced that they were heading out to check out the clubs. Jay said I was a party pooper.

  “Bye, y’all,” Connie yelled from the cab window as they rolled away, “LIM-PO-PO!”

  “I hope they get back okay,” I said, as we watched them drive out of the bright lights of the Waterfront. The cab zoomed up a dark street, bound for the fabled Drum Café.

  “I wouldn’t worry, if I were you,” said George. “This isn’t Jo’burg. They should be safe enough.”

  “Did you hear the guards on Robben Island today talking about all the diamond smuggling, kidnappings, poaching, and drug trade in Johannesburg and at the border of Zimbabwe?” I asked. “I wanted to ask more about it, but David was rushing us along. Aren’t we going to Johannesburg tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” George answered, “but only to change planes. We will never leave the airport.”

  “But when we are in safari camp, near Kruger, Sidney,” Fernando said, “we won’t be too far from the borders of Mozambique and Zimbabwe. The northern border of Kruger really does lie along that ‘great, grey-green, greasy Limpopo River.’ Cross the river to the north, and you’re in Zimbabwe. A few miles to the east, and it’s Mozambique. So it’s probably best not to ask too many questions. Be careful not to be too curious about such things, mia dolce, or like The Elephant’s Child, you, too, just might encounter a crocodile.”

  Chapter 7

  That old goosey feeling got me again when I returned to the hotel. It grabbed me as I entered my room with the spare key card and hit the light switch.

  Nothing looked out of place, and there was no one in the room but me, so why did I feel uneasy? Why did I feel that someone sinister was there, or had been there? Was it just the knowledge working on me that a stranger had snagged a key to my room? How would they even know what my room number was? The key card wasn’t labeled, and the hotel had many rooms.

  Had the draperies over the French door been moved? Was the balcony door locked? Were my things as I had left them?

  I turned on every light in the room and thought about calling Jay, but he was still out partying. Besides, I knew he would only laugh and call me a ninny.

  All seemed to be okay. The room was immaculate. The housekeeper had done her job. There were fresh towels, soap, and tons of toiletries. The bed linens were neatly turned back and a mint and the weather forecast had been placed on the pillow.

  Nothing seemed to be wrong or unusual. The stuff in my suitcase looked undisturbed. Nothing seemed to be missing. There was no one in the closet, or
the bathroom, or under the bed, and when it all checked out I was glad I hadn’t called in the cavalry.

  Nevertheless, I couldn’t shake the creepy, completely irrational feeling that someone had been there, pawing through my things and invading my space.

  “Go to sleep, Sidney,” I told myself as I turned off the bedside lamp, “and try not to be so silly.”

  * * *

  David warned us all about pickpockets the next morning as we drew near Cape Point and the Cape of Good Hope Nature Reserve.

  Jay nudged me. “Heads up, Sidney,” he whispered.

  “Hush! I can’t hear what he is saying because of you.”

  “These are unusual pickpockets, ladies and gentlemen,” David said. “They are easy to spot because they’re all wearing fur coats.”

  “What?” asked Connie. “Did you say fur coats? Who?”

  David beamed, glad that someone had taken the bait. He chuckled at his own little joke.

  “Yes, indeed I did. Short-haired fur coats. You see, my dears, the Cape area is positively infested with Chacma baboons. Baboons! Troops of them. They are known to be purse-snatchers, particularly if there is food in the bag. They have even been known to attack tourists for candy bars in their pockets. So whatever you do here, ladies and gentlemen, do not get off this bus bearing food of any kind. The baboons don’t even have to see the food. They have a keen sense of smell, and if they can smell it, they will attack. They are strong and quick and have long, sharp teeth. Not nice or cuddly at all.”

  “Oh, my,” said Wendy, her eyes rounder than ever, “is it safe to even get off the bus?”

  “Yes, indeed it is, of course it is, but one must be careful.”

  Wendy and Tilda put their heads together and spent the rest of the ride into the park planning baboon defense.

  The rest of us just enjoyed the scenery as we neared Cape Point, following the paved road as it twisted along the jagged, windswept coastline to the farthest tip of the Cape Peninsula. The land was covered in a hardy scrub called fynbos, an Afrikaans word meaning “fine bush.” These fine-leaved, low bushes of the heath are a favorite of the Cape grysbok, and I spotted a grazing antelope, carefully picking its way on long legs among the rocks. It kept a watchful eye, raising its head often as it delicately nibbled the low, tough vegetation. The grays and greens of the rocky, arid landscape formed a dramatic contrast to the vivid blue sky. Now and again I caught a glimpse of a deserted beach far below the roadway on our right.

  For the full-day excursion, we were all traveling together in a big bus. The plan was to visit Cape Point and the adjacent Cape of Good Hope Nature Park, then return to Cape Town via Simon’s Town. The tour also stopped at a penguin sanctuary called Boulders, and Kirstenboch Gardens on the way back.

  Entering the park, we passed lots of animals, including eland, grysbok, Cape mountain zebras, and—surprisingly—ostriches everywhere. I didn’t spot any baboons but I wasn’t too concerned about them. With Wendy and Tilda on Baboon Patrol, I knew I didn’t have to worry about monkeys sneaking up on me.

  Rose asked David about the ostriches.

  “Oh my, yes,” he said. “There are lots of them, dear. They even sell the eggs as souvenirs in the gift shop. The shop has painted ones as well as plain. Some of the painted ones have been made into decorative objects and lamps.”

  “Gotta have one of those,” Jay said, “maybe two.”

  The bus stopped at the visitor’s center.

  “This will be quite a long visit, ladies and gentlemen,” David said. “We will be here for two hours to give you all time for a good look around. You may visit the lighthouse, have lunch, shop for gifts in the curio shop, and still have plenty of time to take all the pictures you want. Before we begin our visit, however, we want to take a group photo in front of the official Cape of Good Hope sign.”

  George groaned and said, “Do we have to?”

  David looked annoyed, and that feeling was reflected in the frosty tone of his reply. “I will ask that you do, please, everyone, as a personal favor to me and to your host company. It will only take a few moments. Then you may take the funicular up to the old 1860 lighthouse for the splendid view.” He looked at his watch. “It’s just eleven. We’re right on schedule. A lovely lunch, included in your tour, will be served in the Two Oceans Restaurant at twelve. There are tables reserved for us. We’ll have an hour for our lunch and shopping and then at one o’clock we will meet back at the bus to leave for Simon’s Town. Now if you’ll just follow me, we’ll pop down that path just over there, take a group photo, and then I’ll release you to explore on your own.”

  Most of us didn’t waste any time getting off the bus or heading down the path, though some made a pit stop at the restroom. In a few minutes, we were all being lined up in front of the sign for the group shot.

  “Right then, everyone. There,” David pointed out, “gather round the sign, please. Now, is everyone here?”

  He looked at his list.

  “Dennis isn’t,” said Rose.

  “Well, where is he?” asked Mabel, exasperated. “He’s always wandering off.”

  “We’ll wait a few minutes more,” David said. “He may still be in the loo.”

  A few moments’ delay didn’t matter at all, for I could have stood there watching for hours. I was awestruck by the power of the waves at this most southwestern point of Africa. Monster waves constantly crashed onto gigantic granite rocks, sending plumes of sea spray twenty feet into the air. One powerful wave was followed immediately by another. Thousands of seabirds wheeled overhead, their circling cries muffled by the roar of the churning waves. An occasional fishy whiff from a colony of seals near the base of the cliff mingled with the sea-salt scent on the breeze.

  As I stood on the sand, gazing out over the turbulent water, the sea seemed to stretch to infinity. Indeed, there was nothing to be seen beyond the rocks and the breakers but the undulant motion of the gleaming ocean until it met that brilliant blue sky at the horizon.

  I couldn’t believe I was actually standing at the Cape of Good Hope. I thought back to my seventh-grade geography teacher in my little school back in the red-clay hills of Mississippi, and how she had longed to visit Africa. I wished she could be there with me.

  The ferocious power of that water was unbelievable. Seeing its force on such a clear day, in good weather, it was easy to imagine why explorer Bartolomeu Dias named it Cabo Tormentoso, or Cape of Storms, when his ship brought the first Europeans there in 1488. Dias made it around the cape and sailed as far as Kwaaihoek, near the mouth of the Bushman’s or Great Fish River, where he erected a large stone cross inscribed with the coat of arms of Portugal. Dias wanted to continue sailing to India, but his crew refused to go any farther, so he was forced to turn his ship around and head back to Portugal.

  Almost ten years later, in 1497, Vasco de Gama sailed around the cape and completed the long-hoped-for passage to India. King John was delighted that his men had discovered a way around Africa. He changed the name of the Cape of Storms to the Cape of Good Hope, and so it remains today. Ironically, Dias, on a return voyage in May of 1500, was lost with his ship in a huge storm just off the Cape.

  “There he is,” David said, spotting Dennis finally coming down the path. “Line up, please, everyone. We’re ready now for our photo.”

  After the group picture was taken, everyone scattered.

  Fernando, Jay and I remained, staring at the waves crashing against the giant rocks. Fernando had been there before and told stories of the Cape and the shipwrecks it was famous for causing.

  “Many ships have gone down here. This coastline is littered with wrecks.”

  “Isn’t this particular point where the legend of The Flying Dutchman originated?” Jay asked.

  “Yes. In 1641 a Dutch ship captain named Van der Decken was battling the fierce storms of the Cape when his ship started sinking. He swore that he would round the Cape if it took until Judgment Day. Sightings of that ghost ship, with its tattere
d sails and broken masts, have been reported during storms from that time until the present day.”

  “Creepy,” said Jay. “Glad the sun is shining. I sure don’t want to see that ship.”

  “It’s eleven-thirty,” I said, tearing my eyes away from the boiling sea. “We better get moving if we want to do everything before lunch. We’re running late.”

  “Yeah, thanks to Dennis,” Connie said. “That guy is on my last nerve, always wandering off somewhere and making us wait for him. If he keeps it up, I’m going to tell him. I’m going to say my piece.”

  “I’m going up to the lighthouse,” Fernando said. “Would you two like to come with me? That, too, is an amazing view.”

  I went with him, but Jay declined, saying that he would meet us at lunch. “I need lots of time in the gift shop,” he said. “I want to buy an ostrich egg lamp for my apartment. It will take time to choose the perfect one.”

  * * *

  Simon’s Town, originally the site of the winter port of the Dutch East India Company, was our next stop. The Dutch had first sailed out of Table Bay, but moved to Simon’s Town after they tired of battling the Cape’s winter storms. Since 1957, it has been the home port of the South African navy.

  We drove through Simon’s Town and stopped in the nearby settlement of Boulders, where big granite rocks provide shelter for a colony of over 2,000 African Penguins, formerly called Jackass Penguins. Similar to their South American cousins, they earned that name because of their raucous, braying call.

  Jay and I wandered along the boardwalk at Foxy Beach, a part of the Boulders sanctuary. The plank path, built of weathered wood, winds among the giant rocks, allowing visitors an intimate look at the nesting penguins without disturbing the little guys. Because the rocks are so big, the boardwalk offers surprises at every turn. The size of the rocks makes it difficult to see what’s coming up next on the path. Beyond the rocks, a beach where people are allowed to swim with the penguins runs into the sea.