Authors: Loren Lockner
I sniggered before taking another bite of the delicious tart. “I’m not the one who has trouble getting out of bed, mister!”
Chapter 8
Dawn peeked through a faint cover of clouds, the result a
beautiful sunrise, all pink and salmon and luminous. We were listening to the raucous cry of a hornbill when Peter’s peripheral vision caught something large, hunched, and spotted. Running parallel to the jeep, the sloping backs of two large spotted hyenas lurched like Quasimodo. At easily one hundred and thirty pounds apiece, they’re known to have the strongest jaws of any mammal their size. The bigger one glanced behind him, his large ears protruding nerdishly from a vicious face, and Peter braked the jeep hard as I whipped my camera out, unfortunately catching only a shot of his retreating behind. The other, loping beside his comrade, grinned. His large ears and the orange tuft crowning his head made him resemble some sort of rebellious teenager.
“Another great butt shot,” observed Peter before I punched him. We had made a credible start, managing to get out of bed at 5:45 to head for the gate. It was already turning warm. I had noticed the temperature shift after leaving Mopani camp. It was hotter and more humid this far north; consequently I removed my gray sweatshirt and stuffed it into my knapsack, shoving the over-packed bag onto the back seat.
We passed through sandstone hills and mopane plains, Peter noting that while many of the trees were still tinted green this late August, others appeared on the verge of death, the grass surrounding their gray tree trunks brown and short under the wide turquoise bowl of sky stretching overhead. Peter stated it hadn’t rained in a good sixteen weeks and the grass had subsequently withered, turning a pale dusty brown.
We crawled at a mere twenty kilometers an hour though the signs permitted fifty, pausing for nearly every bird, bug, and beast. My first real spotting was of a cluster of yellow hornbills picking at a huge pile of dung on the main road. As we paused to watch them, Peter pointed to a large, dark beetle rolling a hefty glob of dung, three times his size, across the road. Occasionally overwhelmed, he twice flipped over the top of the ball. The stalwart dung beetle remained undaunted, keeping to his stinky but apparently necessary mission.
Flies swirled around the huge dung pile. Judging from the clod’s giant proportions, it could only have originated from an elephant. The droppings consisted of coarse, undigested bits of twigs and grass, and its freshness filling me with hope that we’d soon run into the large herbivore. As Peter slowly cruised the vacant dirt road, a lovely bird sat perched upon the dead branches of a lightning-struck tree. Its throat was a deep baby-pink; its soft breast resembled a vest of lovely purple encased by turquoise wings. Bright dark eyes and a stately head mistrusted us on sight, and the timid bird flitted away without a sound.
“That’s the photogenic lilac-breasted roller, a common subject of nearly every South African nature calendar,” said Peter.
“I don’t want to buy the calendar. I just want the blasted thing to sit still long enough for a decent shot.”
Peter smiled at me lazily, examining me as I angled for the best shot.
“Most women resemble that bird you know.”
“Oh?”
Peter sat comfortably in the driver’s seat as he scanned the bush. “All pretty-like, but so quick to flit to safety the moment they get a whiff of something remotely unsafe or unfamiliar.”
I analyzed him. “Such as you?”
“Well, I’m not exactly considered the greatest catch—living this unstable lifestyle and all.”
I lowered my camera and slowly allowed my eyes to savor his lean, tanned face and trim, athletic body. “Stability is much over-rated. And, you don’t see me flitting away do you?”
“No. I don’t.”
My breath caught and I knew that something between us had altered.
“So,” he drawled. “Up for more history this early morning, Mandy?”
“Go ahead, professor.”
“As you know, over-hunting had nearly wiped out all the big game in the late nineteenth century, so then-president Paul Kruger decided to proclaim the areas between the Sabie and Crocodile Rivers as a game park, dubbing it the Sabie Reserve. After the Anglo-Boer War, two to three thousand indigenous people were forcibly relocated as the park expanded. The last removal of the Makuleke people ended in 1969, allowing Kruger Park to evolve into the world’s largest game park. The dispute regarding the rights of the native people and the necessity of preserving habitat for the indigenous creatures still rages today. It’s a never-ending battle, Mandy. I can’t make up my mind who’s right. Certainly the animals and plants of this region are important, but so are the rights of the misplaced indigenous people. It’s a tough call.”
“Don’t you feel that eco-tourism might be the best and only way to help this country curb South Africa’s obvious poverty?” I asked. “Certainly these beautiful birds and animals only benefit from tourists like me.”
He smiled. “I’d have to agree. But keeping nature in perfect balance has always got to be the aim. Hey, just there, it’s the turnoff for Crooks’ Corner.”
As we wound through the quiet dirt roads heading north toward Crooks’ Corner, I spotted a large female kudu, her broad white stripes helping her blend into the dense woodland. Her majestic mate, his curved horns surely a meter long, chewed on a sprig of grass as he stepped into the open. After a dozen shots we moved slowly onwards again, the wind brushing our faces. Koppie Charaxes butterflies, with thin swallow-tail extensions on their blue-tipped hind wings, danced upon white flowers near the road. In one place where a large, muddy puddle of water seeped gradually onto the road, hundreds of the sunflower-colored butterflies hovered, dipping stylishly into the water before drifting away.
It was with a profound sense of satisfaction that we pulled into Crooks’ Corner, situated at the junction of the Limpopo and smaller Luvuvhu River. During the heart of the dry season (the rains wouldn’t come again until October), the wide river drifted slowly, only one to two feet high at its deepest point. The roads had remained nearly vacant all morning. We had only passed one game ranger’s forest-green vehicle and a small yellow Citi Golf, whose two elderly inhabitants shot us a merry wave.
A musty scent filled the car’s interior as the road, hedged in jungle-like trees, opened toward the sandy junction. Birds in the distance alternately cooed, whistled, and warbled, and Peter pointed out the continual hoot of baboons. A leopard tortoise crossed the dirt road slowly; the beautiful pattern upon its yellowish-brown back dubbing it appropriately.
The river stretched wide and far. In the distance, the long neck of a giraffe peeked above the jungle in Mozambique. It was blissfully peaceful and we relaxed with the windows rolled down, contentedly listening to the sounds of the bush and holding hands.
“So here we are, Mandy, at Crooks’ Corner. Did you do your homework?”
“I did indeed, sir.”
“Alright, young lady, why is it called Crooks’ Corner? And no cheating and looking at the information on that stone marker.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I responded, turning my back to the plaque. “This was literally a safe haven for crooks in the 1900s. It didn’t matter if you were poacher, gun runner, or killer; the place was safe because you could just dash across the river to avoid the law from the country you were currently in. The coolest thing is that Zimbabwe and Mozambique are just over there.”
“Quite right,” said Peter, smiling. “It doesn’t get the traffic it deserves for being such a famous spot, since it’s rather remote. The nearest picnic spot is about ten kilometers away at Pafuri, and you saw how long it took to get here from our own camp. There’s an incredible number of birds about. There goes a river warbler. Beautiful, isn’t he?”
He was. We both sat contentedly for nearly fifteen minutes, Peter occasionally pointing out a bird species while we listened to the hippos splashing in the river.
Peter finally stirred and gave a lopsided grin. “Well Mandy, I believe nature calls. It’s fairly open here, so I should be safe.”
I smiled. Peter had marked his territory often during the trip. Sometimes he took his rifle, but today, because of the openness of the clearing, he left it in the rear of the jeep—though his hunter’s knife remained securely fastened to his belt. “Back in a few minutes,” he said and gave me a sly wink as he tweaked his safari hat at me.
Peter hadn’t been gone more than a couple when a white
bakkie
, the South African term for a van, pulled up and an African tourist stepped outside to view the low river. I had scooted over onto the driver’s side and was attempting to focus my binoculars upon a large bird foraging in the shallow water. It possessed long yellow legs, a curved yellow bill, and a strange red face. Its body, completely white except for an under-mantle of black feathers, had identified him to Peter as a yellow-billed stork, a fond visitor to large rivers and estuaries.
A sharp rap upon the door startled me. A lanky, tall black man clad in blue jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt grinned impishly at me.
“Excuse me, ma’am. I hope your husband is not in the bush because I see lion tracks just there. He should not have gotten out of the car.”
I must have appeared startled. “Husband?” I felt quite flattered at Peter being identified as my spouse. I shifted in my seat, ready to call out and warn Peter. “Do you really think there’s danger?”
The concerned visitor laughed sharply and suddenly lunged, grabbing my hair and twisting back my head. “But of course. It’s dangerous to travel these roads alone, Mama.”
The jeep was suddenly surrounded by four black men, two holding handguns. At just that moment I realized every woman’s nightmare: I was going to be raped and robbed. My captor jerked open the dusty jeep’s door and dragged me from the vehicle by my hair, twisting my arm viciously behind me. I cried out in pain while his accomplices scanned the wide parking area and neighboring bush. Only one road led to Crooks’ Corner. Traffic in this remote corner was sparse at best, and these men knew it.
“Get into the back!” the thin man barked. He flung open the door and threw me into the backseat of the jeep before scurrying to the driver’s seat. A stocky, short man with dreadlocks lowered himself into the passenger seat while a heavyset man with small, cold eyes and spiked tufts of hair joined me in the back. My arm and hair ached from their abuse. The fat man next to me, resembling a shorn porcupine, reeked of body odor and waved a pistol in front of my dazed eyes.
Peter! Where was Peter? I frantically scanned the dense scrub surrounding the large turn-around area. The gaunt man gunned the engine and tore out of the huge, circular lookout point, followed by the dusty white van. I strived to memorize the license plate, straining at the effort of focusing on the bobbing rectangle in the ensuing cloud of dust. HCJ 805 NW.
My captors spoke loudly in their own native tongue, the argument intense as I curled myself as far away from my smelly seatmate as I could. The emaciated hijacker drove wildly, suddenly veering off the main dirt road to crash through the brush. Only a few minutes later, the kidnapper made another abrupt turn south. I remembered from the map and Peter’s tutelage that this was wild country with no real public access. The driver remained tense as heated arguments in their native language flew around me. I dreaded to learn what topic they debated. I glanced out of the rearview mirror to note the bakkie still followed, dust and rocks flying behind its balding tires. For just an instant, I swore I glimpsed Peter running parallel to the river. It was a fruitless, pathetic hope. He couldn’t have been there.
The hijacker drove wildly for twenty minutes, dodging thorn trees, scattering small, brown coveys of speckled birds, and once disturbing a long-haired antelope resembling the kudu I had seen earlier. My numb mind recognized it as the elusive nyala. My backpack had fallen onto the backseat floor and the modishly-dreadlocked African fiddled greedily with my new camera and binoculars. He couldn’t know that Peter’s rifle was stowed in the back under a blanket. If I could somehow just reach back there! I had never used a gun in my life, but it had to be simple, didn’t it? My heavy seatmate turned pebble black-eyes on me and lasciviously examined my body. I instinctively knew without a shadow of a doubt that if I didn’t get out of this jeep soon, I was going to be assaulted and probably murdered. Later, I’d be tossed from the vehicle without a shred of conscience, to become food for the scavengers.
We traveled full throttle, holding parallel to the Limpopo River where huge logs, rocks, and debris littered its wide banks. The road became increasing rough as the jeep crashed by the dusty scenery. A crazy plan struck me. If I could somehow manage to leap from the 4x4, the jeep probably couldn’t follow me down the embankment. My kidnappers still adhered to a rough track that had probably once served as a maintenance road. If I planned to bolt, it was now or never. They hit a particularly large bump and the driver cursed in his own language while my seatmate clutched the headrest in front of him. I leaned over and grabbing my bulging backpack, jerked at the stiff door handle and plunged headfirst into the road as the dust billowed around me.
It was probably that choking dust which saved me, since the bakkie had dropped ten or so yards back, its driver straining to achieve more visibility as he steered through the blinding cloud. My shoulder hit the ground hard and though badly bruised and shaken, I leaped to my feet and tore past the rear of the jeep, sprinting for the wide shores of the Limpopo River. I crashed through the dense underbrush as the screech of brakes, followed by men shouting hoarsely, echoed above the harsh din of the car motors. I paid them no heed, desperately plunging down the embankment toward the river, swerving between dirty white boulders and protruding tree trunks in my frenzied effort to escape.