“Oh no, not Chobe.”
Groan. “How can I get there?”
Now they looked at one another as if I’d asked what was the best way to get to the moon.
“You best talk to Mr. Richard,” one of the women finally suggested.
“Yes, that is a very good idea, Mma.”
“Yes, Mr. Richard, he would be the one to ask.”
“Yes, that seems to be the right thing to do.”
“Yes, it is.”
They all seemed to agree heartily on my next course of action. Richard Cassoum was the camp manager. He’d been in the greeting party when I first arrived in Mashatu the day before. I gave the women another smile and said something that sounded kind of like, knee-a-bonga-Mma, which I hoped was thank you, ma’am. They responded with something that sounded like knee-a-bonga-baba, and off I went in search of Mr. Richard.
I found Richard Cassoum standing behind the front desk in the dim enclosure of the front entrance building, as if in wait for me, his tall, gawky body looking rather soldier-like. There was no one else around; even the camp curio shop across the way seemed abandoned.
“Hello,” he greeted me coolly with a sharp nod of his bald head.
“Richard.” He’d said we could call him that. “I’m wondering if you can tell me how I could arrange a trip to a place called Chobe. Do you know it?”
“Is there a problem with your stay here at Mashatu?” he inquired in a formal tone.
“Oh no, not at all, it’s just that I need to get to Chobe as soon as possible. Everything here has been terrific.” He didn’t seem convinced. “Really it has,” I added after a few seconds more.
“Why, may I ask, are you going to Chobe?”
None of your damn business I wanted to say, but instead settled for a more proper response that came out like this: “Personal business.” It was downright cold in the reception area, and not all of it was due to the temperature. I guessed that not many people check out of Mashatu after just one night’s stay, and my unusual request wasn’t sitting well with the camp overseer.
“I see. Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Richard Cassoum informed me with clipped words. “There used to be a flight from Limpopo to Kasane, which is near Chobe, but there isn’t anymore. I’m afraid you’ll have to return to Johannesburg and make arrangements from there.”
He certainly was “afraid” a lot. “I see.” This wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I wondered if Roy the wonder-travel-agent could help me find a better option. “Well, could I use your telephone?”
“I think you’ve been told there are no telephones here for guest use.” His lips were stretched tight over smallish teeth, and his brow was showing signs of stress furrowing.
“Yes, I understand that, but certainly in this case—”
“I’m afraid not.”
Afraid and not very helpful. If I didn’t know better, I’d have guessed Mr. Manager knew exactly why I was going to Chobe and didn’t want me to get there. But nah, my suspicious nature was working overtime.
“Johannesburg is an easy five-hour drive from Mashatu,” Cassoum told me. “On a tarred road,” he commented like that would make a difference. “Perhaps you have a car?”
He knew damn well I didn’t.
“I guess I’ll have to catch a flight,” I said, resigned. “Can I get a driver to take me to the airport?” Since I obviously wasn’t going to be allowed to call ahead and make a reservation, I had no other choice but to get to the airport as soon as I could and take it from there.
He thought on this for a long moment, then abruptly became quite amenable to the idea of getting me away from his camp. “Of course. You’ll have to wait until the others are back from the morning drive—about nine-thirty I would say—all the Jeeps are being used until then. At that time I’m sure we can arrange for one of the men to take you to the airfield.”
I nodded, he nodded, and that was it.
I returned to my room to warm up from my chilly encounter with the camp manager, pack my bags, and wait for my ride.
I had to give the guy credit, for true to Cassoum’s word, a short time after nine-thirty a.m. a guide I’d not met before, Zak, knocked at my door and escorted me to a waiting Jeep. As we passed by the terrace where we’d gathered that morning, I heard the boisterous noise of the other guests, freshly returned from their morning drives, preparing to sit for a proper breakfast after which they’d retire to their rooms for a well-deserved rest and to escape the scorching heat of the midday sun. It would have been a pleasure to join them, but the future held something much different in store for me than a hot breakfast, soft bed, and cool room.
An hour later, the guide named Zak pulled to a hurried stop in front of the Limpopo Valley Airfield building. I hopped off, taking my carry-on and duffle with me, and the Jeep sped away without a backwards glance from the wordless driver, leaving me staring after him as he disappeared in a cloud of African dust.
Good riddance, I thought as I turned and headed for the airport building with its low-slung, thatched overhang roof. I was in desperate need of respite from the intense sun, which had already turned a temperate morning into a searing hot day with negative moisture content. My hope was that my wait for the next flight out of there would be a short one. But hope turned to despair as I stepped inside.
The building was empty.
Abandoned.
Just like me.
Chapter 11
I was back at Limpopo Valley Airport, the same airport where I’d first touched down in Botswana only yesterday. But now the place was echoingly empty, not a solitary soul in sight. The areas meant for security and customs officials were locked up tighter than a drum (whatever the hell that means) with no indication of when someone might return. There was no Arrivals and Departures board blinking announcements of upcoming activity, no check-in area with lines of waiting travellers, no Air Canada Maple Leaf lounge, and, worst of all, no cocktail bar where one might get a few last ounces of courage (which I was suddenly in dire need of).
I began my vigil by setting up camp—basically me, my knapsack, and my carry-on—on one of the benches that ran along the inside wall of the building. Because of the small size of the place, and the fact that it was an open-air structure, from this vantage point I could keep an eye on both the parking area in front of the building (in the hope that a vehicle might arrive to save me) and the landing strip in back of the building (in the hope that a plane might arrive to save me).
I shifted my yearning gaze from the front parking lot to the back airstrip, front to back, front to back, front back, front back….
But wishful thinking does not necessarily produce results. The scene around the tiny airport remained frustratingly unchanged. Nothing. No vehicles, no people, no movement of any kind. Just endless inactivity.
The building was a simple, rustic construction but sufficient for its purposes, I supposed. The thatch roof provided shade, and the only walls were those necessary to hold up the roof and create privacy required for bathrooms, the security checkpoints, and a few other rooms I guessed to be offices or storage rooms. On the off-chance that I’d missed something—or someone—I did a quick tour of the place, checking both bathrooms (water turned off) and knocking loudly on every locked door. Unfortunately my original assessment was correct. The place was a ghost town. I returned to my spot on the bench and waited.
Front back. Front back. Front back. Checked my passport. Checked my wallet. Front back.
After an hour or so, the heat intensifying with every passing minute, I moved to the spot buried deepest within a healthy slice of shade. I pulled my feet up on the bench so that I was in a lying position and, using my carry-on as a pillow, tried to doze, but my busy mind kept me from sleep. Eventually I got up and again paced about the structure, feeling unsure, sweaty, a little sick to my stomach, fighting an unsettling nervousness.
I pulled my Tilley hat low over my eyes and ventured outdoors to see what I could see. I circled the build
ing twice, then found a way to hoist myself up onto some scaffolding, which provided me an unimpeded view of the area. I was looking for another building or farm or village or someplace, anyplace, to go for help. Maybe I’d catch sight of a safari vehicle or a game reserve warden.
But, as far as the eye could see, the same African scrubland was repeating itself over and over again for miles and miles like a house of mirrors, reflecting in on its own reflection.
I knew there were hills and gullies and riverbeds out there—somewhere—just not close by. The one thing I hadn’t seen during yesterday’s safari was a settlement other than the Mashatu camp. This truly was an isolated place. And I was in the middle of it.
Back to the bench. Front back. Front back. Front back. I was exhausted. I’d lost a great deal of energy and sweat during my short outdoor foray, and this time when I lay down, I did fall asleep.
I don’t know how long I slept, maybe an hour. I’d have slept longer if it weren’t for the clawed insect thing that scrambled across my cheek.
Mother-of-pearl! What the hell was that? Scorpion? Centipede?
I jerked awake with a start, swatting away the heinous creature. It looked like a stick with legs. I hopped to my feet, checking my clothes for other bugs. There were none. I fell back on the bench, feeling weak, empty.
Front back. Front back. Front back. Nothing but shimmering heat rising up from the ground. Hotter than Hades. Front back. Front back. Front back.
By late afternoon, I realized there wasn’t going to be a plane. I wasn’t waiting for a ride out of Botswana anymore. I was waiting for rescue.
Afternoon slowly disappeared and with it, mercifully, so did the heat, and I began to understand that my rescue was not imminent.
The sun would be setting soon.
I’d have to ride out the night.
The few snacks I routinely store in my airplane carry-on (Pull-n-Peel licorice, stale pretzels, mixed nuts) were all I had to eat and would need to be rationed. My water supply was growing dangerously low. There would be no happy sundowner gin and tonic for me tonight.
And then—eureka! Jumping to my feet with renewed determination, I marched toward the passageway with the locked offices. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? Surely they kept some sort of supplies on site? Maybe I’d find a way to turn on the water in the bathrooms. Would it be safe to drink? I’d risk it. Maybe I’d even come across walkie-talkies or some other communication device. As I never go anywhere without my lock picks, I wouldn’t even have to do a Magnum, P.I. and bust the doors down with brute force (although at that point I was more than willing).
Entrance was easy.
Luck was not.
The rooms gave me nothing. Unless I was interested in doing a little janitorial duty, or performing repairs on a dot matrix printer.
As twilight spread across the vast backdrop of African prairie that surrounded the deserted airport like an endless, brown ocean, my mind began to play out the worst of all possible scenarios. Suppose there were no flights scheduled to depart Limpopo Valley Airfield for days? Suppose I ran out of water? I only had the litre bottle I’d brought with me from camp, and more than half of that was gone. Suppose locals did pass by but didn’t speak English? How could I make them understand that I’d been ditched here and desperately needed to get back to Johannesburg as soon as possible? Suppose a band of ravenous lions ventured by and—accurately judging me as defenseless prey—attacked me for their evening meal? There was no one to help me. Nowhere to go. I was surrounded by nothingness. And as hours passed and day faded into night, the nothingness became bigger and wider and by its very emptiness filled my brain with nightmare imaginations of peril.
At some point, with abrupt clarity (or the onset of raving paranoia brought on by heat and fear), I came to recognize that my predicament was not some horrible mistake. Richard Cassoum had not made a grievous and unconscious error by sending me to the airport when no flights were scheduled to leave Tuli Block that day. He had somehow learned of my desire to get to Chobe to search for Matthew Moxley, and this was his way of keeping me from my goal. But why? Why wouldn’t he want me to find Matthew Moxley? Had Jaegar gotten to him? What was the connection? Were they in cahoots? The idea seemed preposterous, but so was the fact that here I was marooned in the middle of this African scrubland with no obvious means of getting help, with no phone, no Internet, and no passing traffic from which to get assistance.
With the Mashatu main camp forty-five minutes away by Jeep, and no idea if there were any other settlements nearby, never mind the very real possibility of being attacked by wild animals, there was no way I could walk for help. I was stranded, shipwrecked, cut off from any world that made sense to me. If Richard Cassoum had meant to scare me, he’d done a fine job.
When night, blacker than any I’ve ever seen, finally dropped around the little airport building like a dark blanket, I decided there was only one thing left to do: hide.
In almost any other situation I could conceive of, the thought that I might actually be eaten by a lion, bitten by a poisonous snake, or attacked by a gang of jackals while I slept would have been ludicrous, almost laughable. But today, given my circumstances, those unthinkable prospects were not only possible but quite likely. I needed to protect myself. I gathered my meagre belongings and headed for one of the storage rooms. It was a six-by-six cubicle with a cement floor that hadn’t seen a broom since it was laid. But it did have a door with a lock, rudimentary but certainly sophisticated enough to ward off the cleverest of non-human beast without opposable thumbs.
For the first few minutes of my self-imposed imprisonment, I sat in the dark, cross-legged on the floor, feeling a little sorry for myself. But self-pity just isn’t my style, and it didn’t last long. I dug around in my duffle and pulled out a pair of cargo pants and the raincoat I’d yet to use and arranged them on the floor as a makeshift bed. I balled up a light sweater into a crude pillow and lay down, taking a minute or two to find a comfortable—sort of—position.
For many minutes I stared at the ceiling and strategized about what I would do tomorrow. In Saskatchewan, if you find yourself stranded in your car in the winter, the best advice is to stay with the vehicle. Wait for help to come to you. Every year there are too many sad tales of people freezing to death trying to walk to safety. Was this situation all that different? Sure, I knew if I set out tomorrow morning in the hopes of getting to Mashatu or some other source of help, I certainly wouldn’t freeze to death, but might I die of heatstroke or dehydration? (And this was assuming the local carnivores would be at home, staying cool, and not out trying to score a McCanadian for lunch.)
So what were my options? How long could I last out here? I knew my scheduled flight back to Johannesburg was in two days. If there were absolutely no other flights in or out of Tuli Block before then, could I make it? I thought about my sorry food supply. Sure, I could do without food, but not water. I tossed around a few more scenarios, none of which ranked high on my “One Hundred Things to Do before I Die” list, and my mood turned miserable.
And then I got it.
I’d set the place on fire.
Whether or not my earlier supposition that the airport workers waited until they saw a plane in the sky to come to work was true or not, the theory was good. I had to get someone’s attention. And a big old fire, the local—and, as far as I knew, only—airport going down in a fiery blaze, would surely get someone’s attention and bring ’em running. Yes, it was a drastic move, but I was a desperate man. Or at least I would be after another day or two like this one. I wasn’t about to go down without a fight. I wasn’t going to be left to die in the African sun, burning up like a piece of driftwood and disappearing on a puff of wind like I was nothing. No way. If I had to, I would burn this place down and, hopefully, live to tell about it.
As a last resort.
Having a plan—as radical as it was—gave me comfort. Enough to allow me to close my eyes with some semblance of well-being in my head.
>
The blackness of that night was absolute. I could physically feel it envelop me, covering me like paint, filling my head, dulling my senses. I wondered how long it would be before the noises of nighttime Africa arrived: hoots and clicks and thrumming and yowling and roaring and screeching and slithering. But the noises never came—or if they did, I never heard them—for I quickly fell into a deep sleep with vivid, animated visions of Curious George chasing Brendan Fraser’s George of the Jungle.
By noon the next day, having run out of water, I was searching for matches and wondering how soon I could expect my first, comforting mirage to materialize—something with a kidney-shaped swimming pool, chaise longues, a Cinzano umbrella, fruity drinks, and a cabana boy—when a man on a bicycle arrived. He was about a thousand years old (or really needed a good facial), with a shrivelled raisin for a face above a stick-man body, and wearing tan coveralls. He smiled a crooked smile when he saw me and listened politely as I babbled to him—something about how much I loved him and that he was my ever-blessed saviour sent by Mother Africa—after which he nodded graciously and, obviously indifferent to my plight (or not understanding a word I’d said), moved off to commence his duties.
I watched dispiritedly as he began sweeping and mopping (I hoped the storage room was on his list), and given his shuffling gait, the process took an excruciatingly long time. Eventually he moved on to pushing a large baggage cart, slooooooowly, from the front of the building to the back of the building where the planes pull up. Although I would have preferred if he had pulled out a cellphone and dialled 9-1-1 (or at the very least called me a cab to go back to camp), I took the fact that he was doing stuff with baggage carts as a very good sign. Could this mean the impending arrival of an aircraft and more people?
It did.
At about one-thirty, Garry arrived from Mashatu with a Jeep full of outgoing passengers, including the four Australians; Sylvia Dinswoody, Scotland; and her heretofore unseen husband.
Sundowner Ubuntu Page 16
