Whatever You Do, Don't Run Page 4

  “You could do what Old Joe used to do on his walks,” he said.

  “Which was . . . ?”

  “Do you see that termite mound?” he asked. I couldn’t miss it. From the deck of the camp it was one of the most prominent features, an edifice of clay that stood taller than two men and almost as wide as a Land Rover. I nodded to Chris that yes, I could see it.

  “Joe would lead his guests to it, then sit them on the far side so they couldn’t see how close they still were to camp. Then he’d take an hour telling of the time he was attacked by a lion, turn them around and walk them back. They loved it.”

  This to me was a travesty. Guiding was all about imparting your wisdom of the bush, making people aware of the value of all life, not just the lions and elephants, slyly trying to make conservationists of them while making the whole package entertaining. Besides which, I hadn’t been attacked by a lion and doubted that people would sit still for an hour while I spoke of something as banal as my school days or growing up in the suburbs.

  So on my next walk I trudged out again, sticking to the open plains, casting suspicious glances at every bush and termite mound, warily walking us far around groves of trees. The problem with this approach was that my knowledge of grass was limited, as was the tourists’ interest in it. Perceiving their boredom, I begrudgingly trekked us through a narrow band of trees on our way back to camp, describing the animals that lived in it and how the group of trees came to be formed. We sampled some of the edible fruits, and to my most pesky guest I gave a tasty seedpod that causes hiccups. To get back to camp, we had one more plain to cross, then we needed to get through one last patch of low vegetation.

  At the edge of the plain, a group of zebras were slowly making their way to the shade of the trees, but little else stirred. We moved forward, the group happy now that the camp was near and that they could soon have a cool drink. This is when accidents happen, the guiding books tell you, so I kept my guard up. When we were halfway across the plain, I was rewarded with a glimpse of an ominously shaking bush. There was no breeze, so it must be an animal causing the tremor, I thought to myself. I held my hand up and motioned for the group to stay silent.

  A buffalo emerged from the bush with foliage draped over his horns, a ludicrous looking garland on such a cantankerous animal. For some reason the old boy was having a bad day. Many male animals when upset take out their frustration on inanimate objects, and this guy had just beaten up a bush. I had no doubt that despite being a vegetarian, he would be just as happy thrashing something meaty—like the group of us standing in the open plain.

  With no breeze the buffalo wouldn’t smell us, but seeing the group would not be a challenge. I made slow hand motions for everyone to squat, a prearranged gesture. I didn’t look to see if they had followed my instructions. I just kept my eyes on the buffalo, waiting to see if he would spot us.

  Click. Whir. Click. Whir.

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. But when I turned, my eyes confirmed what my ears had been telling me. One of the group, a young French honeymooner, was proudly standing with his little point-and-shoot camera and snapping photos of the buffalo as his wife tried to yank him down. The buffalo was now glaring at this new object with his yellow-ringed eyes. He stepped toward us, horns high and nose glistening.

  I had no doubt that the bull was still cranky and would treat any target with the same rage as he had just displayed on the innocent bush. I wanted my rifle, mainly so I could shoot the French guy, but I knew that I had to do what Chris had said. I had to make a plan. There was no way we could make it back to the trees. I looked around the near-featureless plain, kicked the French guy in the shins, and waved for the whole group to follow me to a low termite mound. We hunched our way over to it, and I whispered for everybody to stay still and wait there for me. They had little shelter, and the buffalo was approaching rapidly now, so it wouldn’t surprise me if they thought I was abandoning them. With no time for an explanation, I stood, ran sideways across the plain, and then swerved back into the group of trees we had come from.

  I glanced over my shoulder to see that the buffalo had taken the bait. He was following the path I had run, head held high and nostrils flaring, at an angle that would take him past the tourists. Still, my plan was to get him right away from them, so I slunk further into the trees.

  I had been deliberately flapping my sandals as I ran, to make sure I had the buffalo’s full attention, but now I walked like Donald Duck, rolling on the edge of my feet to keep them quiet. I waddled the length of the grove, dropping to my hands and knees as I reached its fringe.

  The zebras were still making their way to the shade, occasionally cropping at grass but mainly scanning their surroundings to make sure all was safe. They hadn’t seen me in the shadows, so they were startled when I burst out, shouting and waving my arms at them. I ran in a loop from the trees, knowing they would rely on their speed to escape and not head for the trees, driving them toward the buffalo that was now very close to the termite mound where I had left my guests.

  The zebras whistled as they ran, a surprisingly cheery sound for a call indicating danger. The buffalo knew exactly what it meant, as all the animals understand each other’s words for danger. As the zebra herd reached him, he had a decision to make. Stay and face whatever was chasing the zebra, or take the safe option and run. I imagine his primitive and sinister brain weighing up his options, then coming up with the answer.

  Bugger it, he would have thought, or some bovine equivalent, and he galloped off with the equids in a cloud of dust.

  I collected the group, and we walked back to the camp in near silence—the only sound the swish of our feet and the occasional smack on the head the Frenchman received from his new wife.

  I was quietly proud of my plan and how well it had worked, accepting the pats on the back from my guests. I felt that I could face whatever challenge the wildlife of Botswana threw at me, and that I had learned how to walk safely.

  Nevertheless, on my next walk, and most of them afterward, I walked a short way, sat my guests down on the enormous termite mound, and told them about the time a buffalo had almost caught my guests and me.

  Princesses and Jacks

  A specialist guide is someone who has been around long enough that he or she can market a safari to past clients and their associates, and on that alone stay busy and profitable. Some have a specialty to go with their name, like in-depth knowledge of birds or the night sky. The good ones tell stories that enthrall their clients at night around the campfire, and may even have an element of truth to them.

  Before I ever became one myself, a specialist guide came to Mombo, and I learned that what I feared most was not getting killed myself, but having it happen to someone in my care.

  This specialist was one of the good ones and was known to be a tad wild. His party included a couple who were members of the British royal family. They were far enough from the throne that it would take an extraordinary series of accidents for them to become king and queen, but they were close enough to it that they spoke with their teeth clenched, smelled rich and somehow made you feel like Oliver Twist asking for more every time they spoke to you.

  With them were their three grown children and another young guy who was friends with one of the younger royals. It was hard to tell which one, because at some point the mother must have given birth like a machine gun—Pop! Pop! Pop! They weren’t triplets, but they did all seem to be around twenty. So did their friend, whose name was Charlie, and he too was a young lord or baronet himself.

  It may have been Charlie who started it, but the commencement of that evening’s festivities, like much of that night, is hazy. The guides often ended up in one of their or the manager’s tents after all the guests had gone to bed. We’d play stupid drinking games or just drink. It relieves the strain of being polite all the time. Because these royals were young, and wanted to have fun, they got themselves invited to the rarely seen back of camp. In addition, the girl was pr
etty, and one of the guides had a bit of a thing for her already. “Guys,” Hayden said earnestly. “I really like her. I think she likes me. Can you watch us and let me know if she likes me?”

  “It’s unlikely,” said Al.

  “You’re not that good looking,” added Anna, the English manager.

  “Not that charming either,” offered Robyn, the Canadian.

  “Like an incontinent warthog,” I finished.

  This was the way we spoke to each other most of the time, in short offensive blasts. When we spoke to the young royals, however, we portrayed him as if he was some sort of god. Perhaps we were going too far, but we decided there was no point under-doing it and calling him a king, because this girl wouldn’t be impressed by that. We needed to talk him up and hope that a lot of alcohol might make him more appealing.

  There was solidarity in our effort. Most of the people that came on safari were too old or too recently married to be open to the seductive charms that a khaki uniform holds. If an attractive, single girl did arrive in camp, and there was a guy who didn’t have a partner on the staff, we’d all do our best to help him. Otherwise you had to listen to them complaining about it.

  That night there were three guides and two camp managers, plus the four young royals in the canvas-and-pole structure that we called a house. In Northern Botswana this is considered a large gathering. Al, the specialist guide, brought some poker dice that had the faces of various cards instead of numbers on them, and he suggested playing strip poker. None of us knew how to play poker, or how to use these particular dice, so Al suggested that we take turns rolling the dice and every time the jack’s face came up, whoever had thrown it would take off an article of clothing or drink a shot of tequila.

  For some reason it seemed like a good idea. Al was the only one in the room over twenty-five. We all started drinking, and then when we felt couldn’t drink anymore, started stripping. On occasion somebody would wander off to the bathroom or outside to pee. (Outside was just as easy and private for the guys. The bathroom was only a basic basin and toilet screened by a thin sheet of canvas.) If you timed your exit right, you could avoid a turn with the dice and the chance of another tequila or lost garment.

  Arguments as to whether a belt was clothing or not, and whether one sock counted, came and went, with a lot of joviality and drink pouring. Charlie, wearing only his underpants, got up and went out the door for a piss like most of the guys had been doing. We drank on and stripped down.

  The noise we were making was just enough to drown out the usual night sounds of distant lions, shuffling porcupines, wailing bush babies and the occasional alarm of an antelope that would make us all think “Leopard!” But we weren’t too loud. If we became too raucous, we would keep the other guests awake and then have to deal with complaints from our bosses in the distant town in the weeks to come. We were professional enough to hush anyone who got too vocal, but not enough that we ended the game when we should have.

  Finally Hayden was naked and pale in the lantern light. Nobody was sure if the game was over, because we were making up the rules as we went along.

  It was decided that from that point on, if Hayden threw a jack he would have to fulfill a challenge, or down a tequila shot. At this stage the mention of the Mexican liquor was enough to make us all gag, but we were still having fun. Hayden announced that the game would be over only when everybody was naked. Al kept rolling queens and kings, and to this day I suspect him of cheating without a theory as to how, and soon he was the last one with a stitch on.

  We all sat with our knees clutched against our chests for the little privacy it offered, but on occasion one of the girls would laugh a little too loud or readjust and you could sneak a peek. Maybe they were doing the same with us guys, but I don’t think so.

  Hayden had edged closer to the little princess and slithered an arm over her shoulders. We were all grinning at this with the subtlety of baboons, except her brothers, who didn’t seem that happy. Then Hayden rolled a jack, the first fully naked person to do so. It was suggested that he make the sound of a dying warthog while standing naked in the clearing outside to see if lions would come, which the young princes liked the sound of, but Al and I vetoed it as too risky. Instead we made him do a flaming arsehole.

  This sophisticated challenge involves clenching five squares of toilet paper (or bog roll as it is known in Botswana) between the backside cheeks. These are then set alight, and an arbitrarily determined distance must be run by the individual. The heat encroaches and singes some places, and running barefoot is awkward over the thorny ground. But Hayden managed his challenge capably, and we all went back inside to carry on with the game. Hayden circled like a hyena trying to figure out how to get his arm around the girl again.

  Then one of her brother’s said, “Where’s Charlie?”

  I had never gone from dead drunk to stone-cold sober before. It is a sensation like an electric shock that leaves you tingling, alert and with the taste of copper in your mouth. One minute your balance is off, you are laughing too much and too loud, and breasts seem to be the most magnificent things you have ever seen. Then you come back into sharp focus. You can see the imperfections, and the only remnant of drunkenness is the feeling of being a little sick.

  I looked at Al, and his tan had disappeared. Hayden, Al and I all grabbed our shorts at once and pulled them on. One of the disadvantages we had had in the game was that most safari guides don’t wear underpants. It was an advantage though now because we were all dressed by local standards as soon as the shorts were on. Add shoes, and you’re ready to go on a rescue mission.

  We paused at the door of the house, sober enough to want a plan. Al took charge.

  “Hayden, he’s staying in tent 6, see if he made it back. Pete, head round to the main building.”

  We got the two managers to stay with the remaining royals and made some half-hearted reassurances that we were sure he would be okay, that he probably just snuck away to bed. I don’t know exactly what the others were thinking, but my thought process went like this: Not lions. We would have heard them. Or hyenas. We would have heard them too—and if it were a single hyena it wouldn’t have had the balls to jump him, even if he was staggering drunk. Maybe a leopard? But the leopards that we used to see were unusual, almost freakish, in their lack of aggression. Maybe, I thought, a single lion. Some female that had split from the pride to have cubs. She would do it with minimal noise and fuss to avoid hyenas. Shit.

  As I walked with a flashlight that I didn’t remember picking up, I suddenly started feeling very vulnerable and wished I had underpants on. It wasn’t cold, but I felt a chill as the beam swung left, right, left, looking for the forward facing eyes of a predator.

  “Charlie!” I hissed, still not prepared to wake the other guests. It would be morning until we could properly look for tracks to see which way he had gone and what had got him, but we all wanted an answer now.

  Only now that I was away from the others did all the night noises crash back in. Owls hooted, screeched or lewdly whistled, depending on the species. Toads croaked in the puddle made where we washed our cars. Somewhere, not far, a hyena whooped, and the hairs on the back of my neck grew bristly and stiff. The light arced around, and there was Al, coming around a corner of the kitchen tent. Both of our lights jumped.

  “Fuck!”

  “Shit!”

  “Luck?”

  “No.”

  “Bugger.”

  “Yeah.”

  We stood quiet for a moment, taking stock and pondering our careers. Among the mixed sounds of a branch scratching at the thatch and the animals calling, fighting and dying, was a repetitive and unknown noise. It repeated at odd intervals, almost rhythmic but not quite. Guides follow new sounds, because they may lead to something they haven’t seen before.

  Al and I looked at each other, still breathing heavily, and wordlessly homed in on the sound. It wasn’t far from the kitchen tent, maybe by the laundry room, but the noise was de
finitely organic. The generator had been switched off long ago, and you could tell when a sound was made by an animal. Every now and then Al and I would pause, shining our lights around and whispering Charlie’s name. The sound never paused. It just kept its erratic beat.

  Tap tap. Growl.

  Tap tap. Growl.

  It didn’t sound like something feeding. That’s a wet sound, with tearing noises mixed in. This was dry and raspy.

  Tap tap. Growl.

  We rounded the locked laundry door, and there sprawled against the wall, with his legs splayed in front of him, was Charlie. As our light played over his incongruously white underpants, he clapped weakly twice and gave out a hoarse “Hey!” in a scratched and vulnerable voice, just as he must have been doing for hours.

  “Fuck,” said Al.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Hey,” said Charlie.

  After we’d carried him to his room, we went back and collected the royals, clothed now and looking young and awkward. We told them that Charlie had been found and was fine. He’d confessed that he’d wanted to sneak away, and thought he’d find his tent. He’d found some startled Belgians instead, backed away from their tent, and staggered off into the bush. Looking at his tracks the next day, it could only be considered a miracle that he’d made it back into the camp, such a wandering and tortuous path had he walked. When he’d found the laundry structure, he’d felt saved and was convinced his clapping and “heying” would keep any predators at bay for the rest of the night.

  We escorted the guests (their status as guests had been restored with their clothes) back to their tents, bidding them all a safe good night, and regathered at the staff house. We did a half-hearted clean up, sweeping empty bottles into a bag and collecting the random and discarded clothes that still littered the floor. We all decided that the night was over, and shaken but relieved we started heading for our tents. There was only one unresolved issue.