African Romance

Since I’m planning another trip into the Namibia and Kalahari deserts, and being mindful of the folk accompanying me, the story came flooding back (Ahem)…. Here with a warning. This is looooong. It lacks serious erotic content. However, it’s intended for the deeply romantic among us. For those adventurous souls who download it – I trust you enjoy it.
Some years ago, when I lived in a city called Johannesburg, I was in an outdoor shop buying some kit for a short trip into the sticks, when a small group of British tourists entered and were chatting about sunscreens, hats and the like. The group appeared to consist of two middle aged couples, a younger couple (the lass was such an attractive person with eyes that held any glances captive and a smile that could turn a tundra wasteland into a tropical Eden – but as she appeared attached, it was a no–go area). There was also another younger girl of school–going age.
I guess the shop staff must have all been occupied, because one of the older gents came over and asked for some recommendations. What with one thing and another, we got chatting about where they were going etc.
It turned out they were looking to do some game viewing and photographing, but were on the lookout for something different from the normal touristy sit–in–the–vehicle–while–we–drive–you–about type of thing. They were lamenting the fact that they had been unable to make suitable plans while in the UK, and now feared that their objectives might come to naught. I offered as much info as I could and hopefully infused some of my passion of the bush into the conversation.
I mentioned that I was on my way to do a short trip to a game reserve myself, and there existed a chance that I could secure accommodation for them from a mate of mine who was a ranger there. Well, all faces brightened by 200 watts, and we agreed to meet back at the shop in 2 hours while I went off to my office to make some phone calls. As good fortune would have it, there would be just enough space for the visitors if yours truly kipped in a tent. Of course, being of Scots decent, the reduction in my tariff suited me down to the ground .
I returned with the good news and gave them all the necessary details for confirmation. My idea was to sort them out with a destination and then leave them to their own devices while I meandered off to do my own thing – photographically speaking. It didn’t work out like that. To cut a long story short, it was arranged that I’d take them to a “hide” next to a waterhole before dawn so that we could spend a while taking pictures of game drinking etc. It’s better than following/tracking them all over the countryside on foot. For those not acquainted with what a “hide” is. It’s a hut–shaped shelter built to merge in as much as possible with the rest of the bush. It comprises of some stout poles supporting a thatched roof, walls made of dry reeds and a dried mud floor. At appropriate sections, a viewing gap is inserted in the wall to enable people to observe/photograph the goings on outside.
I know I’m biased, but African sunrises and sunsets in the bush are difficult to beat, and provide splendid material for potential shutterbugs to go mad, shooting off several feet of film. This morning promised to be no exception and we were installed in the hide while it was still dark. My “guests” were appropriately turned out in the neutral colored bush wear acquired at the outdoor shop. The pre–dawn chill was very much apparent by the unwelcome presence of the odd goose bump on the arm or thigh.
As the watchful stars began to hide themselves behind the advancing pearl–pink light of dawn, birds and insects heralded the new day, each with their own song of praise. Then, as the orange–gold medallion levitated above the horizon, the day’s first zephyrs came, heavy laden with a million smells – the dawn dew, the Khaki Bush’s distinctive presence, the Acacia thorn trees’ fragrance and the smell of animals as they made their morning trek towards the waterhole. Long, sharp shadows, cast by squat trees, cast exploratory fingers across the still surface of the water, above which moved the merest apparition of spectral steam.
Every now and then, the close stillness of the hide would be interrupted by the soft “click whirr” of a camera’s shutter, as a moment of interest would be immortalized onto a celluloid memory. As dawn evolved into day, the muddy edge of the waterhole came alive. Birds, beetles and butterflies flitted and danced, to and fro in an aerial ballet. During the next couple of hours various animals slowly and cautiously began to approach and congregate near the water, eyes and ears ever alert for possible dangers. Each, according to its own instinct would drink and watch, drink and watch. More and more “click whirrr–ing” of cameras. I began to notice a difficulty in steadying my eye to the camera eyepiece. I realized that it was the young lass bouncing her knees up and down like a sewing machine. “Yup!” I thought, “That’ll teach you not to go to the loo at the rest camp”. There are no facilities near the hide – only a long–drop (pit) about 6kms away at a fenced off picnic site.
I glanced at her and caught her boyfriend’s glare boring into her. She blushed and smiled at me, winced at the boyfriend and stopped the knee dance. Concentration of outside was resumed. The boyfriend was installed behind an ever–so–posh camera and a lens that you would swap your house for in this country (400mm f2.8 lens – I kid you not). “So that’s why she’s going out with you – you prat – size evidently does count. – Size and money.” I was so busy sour–grapes–ing that I almost failed to see the stage being set for an awesome kill.
About 150 meters downwind of the waterhole, a group of 3 adult lionesses (who shall remain mane–less for obvious reasons) began stealthily moving into place preparing to organize breakfast. Every so often a tawny head or back would momentarily appear above the grass as they almost imperceptibly positioned themselves to strike. In an act of supreme, selfless gallantry (but mainly because the light was not ideal for the pictures that I needed), I passed my camera and tripod over to the girlfriend so that she could get a better view of the scene which was unfolding in the distance. The atmosphere in the hide was electric and attention on the story outside was total.
In that peculiar feline manner, the visible crouching lionesses positioned her rear legs to launch the attack by wobbling her rear–end. Inside a split second, all three lionesses sprang. With primeval fear – all life around the waterhole dispersed in a cloud of dust, a clatter hooves and screams of warning. It soon became apparent which animal was going to be the victim. It was a young zebra – about a year old. Not ungainly juvenile, but not yet fully grown. In a blind panic, the zebra, dodging and weaving, galloped towards the hide. Within a few seconds, and a masterful pincer maneuver, two lionesses leapt onto the zebra – one at its throat and the other one on its hindquarters. Less than 30 meters from the hide, predators and prey crashed to a frantic, dusty halt – the dying screams of the zebra soon stifled as the lionesses’ powerful jaws closed over its wind pipe.
As the tension of the moment slowly dissipated, I looked round at the inside of the hut. The expensive cameras belonging to my guests had consumed several feet of film. A couple of folk, including the lass who was watching the scene through my camera were no longer sitting, but were crouched over – peering out of the viewing gap. One of the middle–aged ladies was a little pale, perhaps because of the macabre violence of the bush death. Both she and the “girlfriend” had tears in their eyes. With one hand unashamedly pressed into her crotch, she passed the camera back to me. The youngest girl – a look of horrified disgust on her face – could not prize her eyes away from the grisly scene outside.
Almost immediately, the other lionesses in the small group arrived and were up to their ears in bloody breakfast. Because the kill was so close to the hide, the noise of the cats tearing flesh, crunching bone, and growling at each other was pretty clear. While they were busy, I pointed out to the people that the rest of the wildlife had returned to the waterhole and were carrying on as if nothing had happened. Thereafter, lenses vacillated, between waterhole and kill, sometimes capturing a lioness taking a swipe at a foolhardy vulture.
Taking a moment or two to straighten the back and legs, I looked around inside the hide and saw that the ladies were doing a bit of pacing. I suspected that not all was well in the bladder dept. and that there would soon have to be a wee break to drive any sufferers to the picnic site. The “girlfriend” was looking clearly uncomfortable. Indeed she caught my eye and made to come over and whisper ‘The Request’ in the old ear hole when it happened…
From the rear of the hide, about 6 inches of the outside of the “wall,” came the most hair–raising, earth–trembling, bowel liquefying roar from hell…Oops, I’d forgotten that there’d be a good chance of at least one male in the vicinity, and I have to confess that for a split second there was about 2 feet ‘twixt me and Mother Earth. My guests were a little less prepared and at least two shrill, staccato screams came hard on the heels of the roar. The “girlfriend” cupped one hand over her mouth and the other between her legs. It didn’t help though because the wee ran in torrents down her slacks and onto the ground, where the dry mud soaked it up before it was able to form a puddle – lucky old mud! Soon, the musky fragrance of feminine wee mingled with the other multitude of smells. Most regrettably, any feelings of sensuous satisfaction were overshadowed by (a) compassion and (b) a sense of responsibility to indicate to a somewhat uncertain group of people that all was most probably okay. However…I did look long enough to allow the image to burn into my memory for future reference.
A second regal utterance issued forth causing an electric atmosphere at the waterhole. Inside the hide, Clyde, we weren’t doing too badly ourselves. What made it worse was that we couldn’t see it yet as there was no viewing gap at the rear of the structure. We could only feel his heavy movement hard by the hide, and hear a mixture of panting and a deep, deep purring as if it came from the very center of the earth. Mercifully, however, his attention had been seduced by the sight of his concubines ripping away at the diminishing heap of striped breakfast. A second or two later a fine example of feline masculinity loped into view – a majestic, proud, black and tan mane streaming backward in the breeze, as he approached the kill.
By this time the young lady was silently weeping. Her companion, the intrepid explorer, fearless photographer and twit, was showing signs of impatience and disgust. This only served to increase my desire to do the caring thing. However, I had to tell them that it was still not safe to venture outside the hide because – although unlikely – there might be more members of the pride waiting their turn to eat. If we waited another half–hour, all the cats would be satiated and would not be threatened by our presence or interested in us as dessert.
“Please can we go as soon as it’s safe, I’m scared me mum’s going to embarrass herself too if we’re not quick about it. And I still need to go.”
I assured her that we would go as soon as I could responsibly determine it was safe. I also suggested we leave the others at the hide while we went to the loo. She heartily agreed and went of to whisper the arrangements to her mother. After a while I glanced over to hopefully catch some sign of agreement, but all I saw was the consternation on her mother’s countenance. I went over to give some assurance and as I approached, she whispered urgently, “I’m not going to last a half an hour son, I didn’t know it was all going to be like this.”
I smiled and in as an assuring a manner possible, I said that she shouldn’t worry about these little mishaps, “They happen all the time. Especially if you’re going to sit it out, up a tree or in a hide for 18 hours.”
This must have been the straw that broke the camel’s back, because she grasped her daughter’s hand and pulled her into a corner and said, “stand in front of me – and everyone, turn your back!” While we diligently and pointedly studied All Things Bright and Beautiful outside, there was a muffled hiss and after what seemed an eternity and a few giggles, a modicum of normality was resumed. Looking at the youngest girl in the group, she had her face buried in her hands in a state of pubescent embarrassment. The others were either totally ignoring what was going on behind them or appearing very annoyed. One gent who, I guess was her husband, complained, “She ‘ad nowt to do this morning but get up, get dressed an’ go to the bog. But, no. Madam ‘ad to go an’ ‘ave coffee an’ bread rolls, didn’t she.”
Discretion, being the better part of valor made me studiously maintain my vigil of the activities outside. However, after what I considered to be a prudent amount of time, I surreptitiously glanced round – and what a pleasant sight. The mother had stood back up and pulled her slacks up. But she must have weed through her panties because there was a huge wet patch up her bottom, almost up to her belt line. This was all too much for me because I was unable to keep from being outrageously excited. It was all I could do to concentrate on anything else for the next half–hour so as not to reveal any visible signs of my interest.
After the passage of the obligatory half–hour, I stood up and whispered that I was off to the loo and anyone wanting to go could ride with me. Mother and daughter were already at the door untying the wire. In a perverse way, I was glad that they were the only two coming with me, as the rest of the group were plainly indicating that they were of a different stratum of society.
The 50 odd meters to the car were covered in double quick time, albeit uneventfully. Once in the car, the chatting started. Despite my attempts at assurance, they felt they needed to explain and apologize.
“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me. It’s Mum over here that has got the weak bladder. I’m supposed to be fine. You must think I’m a proper git.”
At this stage I threw caution to the wind and replied, “Well, it just goes to show that you’re human, like the rest of us. In fact I think it’s quite cute.”
It was as if I’d pulled the plug out of a radio. All that was to be heard was the engine as it grappled with the uneven road surface, and my breathing. In my peripheral vision I perceived glances ‘twixt mother and daughter. What to say next… Think, think, think… Come on you idiot, before they slap you or want to get out and walk because they think you’re a total sicko.
In as calm a manner as possible, I tried to explain that there are times when the prize of a good photo, or a VERY long wait does end up in an accident. I went on to relate an account (a true one – promise) when a fellow photographer had covered himself in hessian (sacking) and foliage to camouflage himself while he took pics of a mother and son Rhino pair. He’d been dying for the loo when a complication set in. He got a cramp. The exquisite pain of the cramp overcame any caution to remain hidden, and he stood up. Of course, this aroused the interest of Baby Rhino and the deep suspicion of his mother. She came sniffing up to his puerile camouflage get–up and couldn’t understand why a smelly stream of liquid began to emanate from this weird “tree”. As my mate said, “It’s difficult not to let go when you’re faced with a lethal weapon on top of the head of a ton of muscle – mummy or not.” As good fortune would have it, his presence of mind to remain absolutely motionless caused both Rhinos to lose interest and wander off… and yes, he did get his pictures and yes, at least one of them is published.
My anecdote apparently did have some sort of beneficial effect because they both made sympathetic noises. By the time the story was finished, we were at the fenced off picnic site and we hopped out. Off mum trotted, loo roll in hand, to the “long drop”. The young lass and I took a scholarly interest in the vegetation and bird life a prudent distance from the loo. While trying not to take a more than scholarly interest in her damp slacks, I felt the need to explain myself and as I opened my mouth, we both spoke. After the obligatory apologies and giggles, she said, “Thanks for today. It’s been really terrific. I’m really sorry we’ve spoilt everything for you.”
“Nonsense! This hasn’t spoilt anything.” I actually wanted to say a whole lot more – like, “You’ve actually made my whole year. I shall dream of you for a very long time to come.” But, such are the inward torments of a shy guy…
“I’ve spoilt a whole lot for me though. I’m going to get hell when we get back to the rest camp,” she said with downcast eyes.
“What on earth for?” I asked incredulously.
“His Nibs has a thing against accidents. The first time we had one of our big rows was when our parents met during a Hogmanay ball. Me mum slipped on some stairs, sprained her ankle and widdled her knicks. His mum said that most people are potty trained by the time they’re four years old – not forty–four. She can’t help it, she really can’t. She’s always doing it.”
“Prat!” was all I could think of to exclaim. I wanted to ask so much more. My head swam. Mirages of wet spots on dresses, damp panties floated before me while we walked. Then she dropped the bombshell…
“So, do you really think wet knickers are cute?”
The average temperature in this part of the world, in early summer, hovers in the mid 30’s (that’s Celsius). Despite this climatological profundity, I proceeded to turn a deep red. And even the midday sounds of the bush couldn’t drown the pounding of blood in my ears. Isn’t it incredible, we blokes try so hard to be “unrufflable” – so cool. But when a certain kind of lady has that happy knack of asking or saying something, our carefully constructed fa’ade of composure crumbles into a treacherous heap at our naked ego’s feet.
“Well. I…um…Yes, but in a nice sort of …Oh hell, yes, I guess so,” I stammered. “Well done! Mister Rudolph bloody Valentino,” I thought to myself. “Would you like to change feet now or later?”
I looked up from my boots. There she was, stifling a giggle with a pretty hand in front of her mouth– eyes sparkling, dancing like a happy mountain spring. A short eternity passed before she decided to rescue me. “Me too. I think it’s sexy.”
I was sure she could see my heart pounding in my chest. I could surely feel it – it must be visible! Before I could faint away into oblivion, her mother approached along the pathway.
“All clear!” She said and handed the lass the loo roll.
She winked at me as she took off and said almost conspiratorially, “See you later.”
Mum looked decidedly less stressed and a smile came readily to her face. Without embarrassment she turned and showed me her bottom. “See, it’s getting drier all the time.”
There was only the merest hint of dampness now, and I assured her, “Yup! Don’t worry, by the time we get back to the hide, no one will know what happened.”
“Oh they know all right son. They can offer up a prayer of thanks that it doesn’t happen to them. Even me husband has turned funny since ––––––– met the boyfriend. I don’t know what she sees in ‘im. I’m sorry; I’m talking out of turn here. Me ‘ubby’s an accountant in local government an’ I’m a nurse. We would never ‘ave been able to afford this trip if it weren’t for them. Half of me is grateful, but the other half…”
In the silence that followed, she turned her moist gaze to the horizon. I could imagine protective thoughts going through her motherly mind. Financial security and social position are seductive ingredients in love’s cuisine. But they subtly and slowly curdle the feast into a thing of despicable loathing. We stood in our new companionship and let the knowing silence acquaint us.
Hearing the loo door scrape closed in the distance, I spoke, “Who knows, it’s not too late. And better now than after any marriage plans come to fruition.” I tried to put an encouraging smile on my face – don’t know if it worked.
Under her breath, her mother whispered, “Thanks for all you’ve done son. I don’t think you’ll know just all you ‘ave done.” So saying, she patted me on the arm and turned to her approaching daughter.
Epilogue
The rest of the time at the game farm went off relatively uneventfully. As hard as it was (we won’t go there) I tried to act the role of gentleman.
At the end of the long weekend, we said our good byes. I’ve always had a vivid imagination – but did I imagine, when she said goodbye to me, that there was something else in her expression? There was so much I wanted to ask, to tell her.
We made the obligatory promises to write, and I watched her in the rear–view mirror – waving – until she disappeared in a cloud of African dust.
I drove fast along the gravel road. Tires roared in the hot, bright afternoon, and the occasional stone hit underneath the car. Each resounding “clunk” opened another memory picture of this incredible lady. Mother Nature seemed to sense my melancholia and – through the open window – she caressed my face and hair with her fragrant breeze.
I returned home late that Sunday evening. My apartment seemed just that bit more empty. I switched on the radio in the kitchen and the TV in my bedroom – just for company. I vainly tried to wade out of this syrup–like oppressive feeling of emptiness by busying myself with cleaning camera equipment and readying myself for work in the morning.
Six weeks passed – with only a modicum of memory loss of that incredible weekend. Then one Friday when fetching the post…There was this letter. I believe they call it instinct, but there was no doubt who it was from. I smelled the letter in a pathetic attempt to make her memory real, and slowly began to read.
Incredible! She’d broken up with the bloke after a massive row at the UK customs. She’d accepted a post in London and had vowed to repay everything his folks had put up for the trip. But… The part that had me reading and re–reading it a hundred times was…
“I often look at the photographs to bring back the happy memories of South Africa – and you. I really miss you. I believe we have such a lot in common (knickers and all!!??!?!?). Is there any chance of you coming over here for a holiday – or maybe longer? If so, I promise to try and make your stay as enjoyable and memorable as you made mine!”
Yes, we corresponded for some while, and no, I haven’t been able to get across. I guess life’s little impracticalities… Maybe there’s someone else.
De Lurker