Chapter 16

“In the Jungle, the Mighty Jungle …”

Johannesburg, South Africa

November 2

My video camera was running when the hippo attacked, so I was able to capture the entire incident on tape. While it was happening the ambush seemed to last forever, but the tape shows that the whole affair took less than ten seconds.

The first thing you see is a male hippo with only his porcine ears and beady little eyes above the waterline. Then the beast slips under water, and you hear me shrieking words of warning along with a few choice expletives. The boat’s engine roars to life, and as I stumble backward, there are some inelegant shots of the river and sky. When the camera steadies, you see a hostile four-ton hippo lunge from the water with his powerful jaws flung open like a car trunk. He’s less than ten feet behind the boat, so you get a pretty good view of his huge peg teeth and the pink gullet beyond. The leviathan’s design seems clear: to capsize our little boat, grab us with his jaws, and shake us like rag dolls. Providentially, the boat has reached full speed at this point, and the behemoth’s lunge falls short. All he can do is snort and glare as we beat a hasty retreat. The tape ends with some trifling profanity from the cameraman and several anxious questions from the children. Even Thomas, our game guide, looks slightly shaken.

I tell you all of this somewhat casually, but after the hippo attack, I guarantee that we all viewed the exuberant African wildlife in an entirely new light. The pretty beasties no longer seemed like tourist attractions set upon the plain for our amusement. They now seemed to be what they were—eminently dangerous and cunning adversaries. Several species, like elephants, Cape buffalo, even some types of antelope, will attack if they feel threatened. Others, like lions, hyenas, and crocs, wouldn’t mind having you for lunch. Most game guides try to convey these facts of life to wide-eyed tourists the moment they set foot in Africa, but take my word for it, the lesson is far more vivid once you’ve stared down the throat of a lunging eight-thousand-pound hippo.

This practical wisdom was further impressed upon us when we left Chobe and drove back to Victoria Falls. We stayed in a hotel compound out on the edge of town for five days, in an African-style bungalow with a high thatched roof. On the night table we found a handbook that itemized the particular perils posed by each of the neighborhood species. After his creature-by-creature rundown, the author offered the following common-sense admonition: “Basically, it is incredibly stupid to feed or taunt any wild animal.” Hotel residents were then advised not to venture outside their huts after dark without an escort.

The hotel compound had a locally renowned restaurant, and we were anxious to sample its Zimbabwean cuisine. Since we were now convinced that we might become dinner walking to dinner, we phoned for an escort. The guard—a small, wiry Ndebele man with a nightstick—escorted us to a traditional open-air boma¹⁹ replete with African drummers and a buffet stocked with dishes you won’t find at your neighborhood Sizzler.

Devi and I began our meal with crêpes stuffed with ostrich (not bad), kudu pâté (better), and curried crocodile that tasted more like curried rubber. After that, we sampled wart hog steaks (yum), taro root, and impala cutlets. We wanted to set an adventurous example for the children, but neither Devi nor I could muster the courage to try the boiled millipedes in red sauce. The children, by the way, were thoroughly disgusted by the entire spectacle and refused to take any part in it.

Willie, who had been subsisting on rice, pasta, pizza, and potatoes for the past four months, objected on general principle, and Kara objected on ethical grounds.

“How can you eat endangered species?” she demanded in high dudgeon.

“I don’t think wart hogs are an endangered species,” I replied.

“Still, I don’t see how you can go out and watch beautiful animals all day, and then come back and eat them for dinner.”

“Did you get a good look at the wart hogs, Kara?”

“Yea?”

“Believe me, they taste better than they look.”

Kara sighed in disgust, and would only eat vegetables and rice. But after dinner, she and the boys were mesmerized by a dozen lithe African dancers in leopard-skin loincloths.

While the kids watched the dancers, Betty and I popped outside to a small hut near the restaurant to have our fortunes told. The soothsayer’s hut was the size of a chicken coop and was lit by a single candle. I stooped inside, and a very serious young shaman motioned me to sit down. Then he chanted impressively and tossed what looked like small mammal vertebrae onto the dirt floor. He repeated the process several times, then proceeded to augur. I think common sense and a glance inside the restaurant might have informed his first two observations: “You have three children and are traveling far from home.” But after that he went out on a limb, confidently proclaiming that I would return safely to my home village, that I would never get divorced, and that I would live to see the birth of five grandchildren. Despite his excellent showmanship, I wasn’t convinced this particular soothsayer had any special prognosticative powers. Still, I hoped he was right on all three counts. Betty refused to tell us what the shaman divined for her, but for the rest of the evening, she smiled more than usual.

Before we left California, Devi made several attempts to arrange an overnight safari with the kids in Hwange National Park—one of southern Africa’s best-stocked, least-crowded game reserves. She faxed several professional safari companies, but they all wrote back saying they wouldn’t take children younger than twelve out overnight. They said that small children might wander into the bush, where their small size made them attractive prey for hyenas.

When Devi persisted, one of the safari outfits put her in touch with a professional hunter named Jane Bettenay. Jane was raising two young children of her own, so she felt more comfortable taking kids into the bush. Devi assured Jane that Kara and Willie would follow all of her rules, and she agreed to leave Lucas back at the hut with Betty.

The morning of our safari, Jane roared up in a gigantic utility vehicle with a game-viewing platform mounted above the cab. She was a tall, raw-boned woman in her mid- to late-thirties with sun-weathered skin and well-worn khakis. Jane wasn’t the least bit talkative, but once we got to Hwange, she proved an excellent game spotter. Jane located several animals we hadn’t seen at Chobe, including a herd of zebra, some wildebeest, and much to the kids’ delight a hyena with suckling cubs.

By mid-morning, Willie and I got into the spirit of things and climbed up on the game-viewing platform. We jolted down the sandy red track with the hot wind whipping our hair. Every few minutes or so, a hornbill with an enormous yellow beak darted out from a tree ahead of us, and herds of impala, startled by our approach, would bound into the bush.

We enjoyed the panoramic views from Sinamatella Camp then headed south toward Masuma Dam, our campground for the night. The Masuma Dam camp was located next to a perennial water hole. It had a long, low blind with a thatched-roof for game viewing, a small water tank, a barbecue pit, and a clearing for tents. A high rickety wire fence surrounded the camp, but as Jane and a posted sign confirmed, it would do little to slow down a charging elephant or a determined lion.

While Jane prepared dinner, we sat quietly in the blind observing life at the water hole. During the last daylight hours, herds of antelope timidly approached the water’s edge to slake their thirst. They stood back as far as they could to avoid being taken by a crocodile. At dusk, six or seven hippos laboriously hoisted themselves from the pond and lumbered off across the plain to graze. Then a dozen elephants approached and stood in noble silhouette against the setting sun. The sky went blood red, then ebony, then a billion stars exploded into life. Finally, a full moon rose from the east and obscured all but the most brilliant constellations.

By that time, dinner was ready, and much to the children’s relief, it turned out to be glazed chicken rather than braised kudu or curried Cape buffalo. Over coffee, the campfire conversation turned, as it often does in these parts, to stupid tourist stories. It seems that foreign visitors to Africa routinely underestimate the danger lurking all around them, so the guides responsible for their safety have honed a well-rehearsed repertoire of cautionary tales. The first of these concerns a Taiwanese tourist who, against all better advice, hopped out of his Land Rover in order to kneel beside a pride of lions. He evidently thought this was a great photo opportunity for his family, but the lions saw it more as room service. He was promptly killed and eaten at leisure.

Second on the list of Darwin Award winners was the macho German visitor to Namibia who snuck out of camp late at night so he could sleep next to the water hole. Apparently, he wanted to take some close-up photos of the elephants as they shambled down to the pond at first light. But when dawn broke, only a well-chewed sleeping bag was found at the water’s edge. Since we, too, were sleeping near a water hole, we found this tale particularly poignant.

Finally, we heard about some canoers on the Zambezi River above Victoria Falls who repeatedly slapped the water with paddles in order to frighten away a hippo lurking beneath. As we’ve already determined, hippos aren’t easily intimidated, and certainly not by canoe paddles. When the beast attacked, the guide managed to wound it with his pistol, but the hippo retaliated by amputating his arm above the elbow.

Needless to say, these gruesome tales had their intended effect and put the fear of God into us, and before we all turned in for the night, Devi and I read the children the riot act.

“Kara will sleep in Mommy’s tent, and Willie will sleep with me,” I said, “and under no circumstances will either one of you set foot outside your tent until morning. Is that clear?”

“What if I have to go to the bathroom?” asked Kara.

“Then wake up Mommy, and she’ll go with you.”

“I’m not going anywhere outside that tent,” said Devi, “so you better go before you fall asleep.”

“But what if I have to go in the middle of the night?” asked Kara, pushing the envelope as usual.

“Then go in your pants,” I said. “Are we clear?”

“Yes, Daddy,” said Kara.

“Willie?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“If you stay inside the tent, there’s no reason to be frightened. We’ll be right beside you, and no animals will come inside.”

I actually had no evidence whatsoever that this last statement was true. Happily, our children still have excessive faith in us, and neither asked what we might do if an animal did happen to turn up. Personally, I planned to keep my Leatherman knife drawn by the side of my cot, and I entertained a fantasy or two about plunging it into the throat of a crazed hyena. But in my heart of hearts, I knew that sort of thing only worked in Tarzan movies.

Anyway, the kids were exhausted, and they quickly dropped off to sleep without any apparent worries. Consequently, only Devi and I heard what happened next. Let me put it this way: whoever wrote that song, “In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight,” has obviously never been to the mighty jungle, because:

a. Lions don’t live in the jungle, they live on the savanna;

b. They hunt at night; and

c. The African bush—once the nocturnal sonata gets cracking—is far too noisy for sleep.

You know how small noises are amplified at night—even in quiet suburbs. Well, imagine the worst possible case of that—then quadruple it. As I lay in my sleeping bag, I heard cicadas hissing, crickets chirping, bullfrogs croaking, lions roaring, elephants groaning, and God knows what rummaging around in the underbrush right next to the fence. About the time I managed to convince myself that most of this was normal run-of-the-mill African bush noise, the most blood-curdling cacophony I have ever heard came rolling through the camp.

First, a large animal—Jane later said it was a Cape buffalo—came crashing through the brush just outside our camp. Then a pride of lions followed in pursuit, growling and roaring. The buffalo screamed. (This, by the way, is a particularly unsettling noise.) Then the lions dragged the beast down through the snapping brush and apparently ripped out its throat. The buffalo died a very long and excruciating blood-gurgling death that left me lying in my cot with my eyes bulging and my pulse pounding like tympani.

During the entire twenty-minute kill and for several hours afterward, I grasped the hilt of my knife with white knuckles ready to eviscerate any beast that might come crashing through our tent. Eventually I fell asleep, but it was a fitful slumber. I woke up every fifteen minutes or so, and each time I did, I thought to myself, “What sort of idiot would his bring children on a sleepover in the African bush surrounded by lions?” The kids, by the way, never heard a thing.

As if all that weren’t excitement enough, the next day, Devi and I were scheduled to shoot the rapids on the Zambezi River below Victoria Falls. We’d done some white-water rafting in Costa Rica at the very beginning of the trip, but those were “level two” rapids, the white-water equivalent of a stroll in the park. The stretch of the Zambezi we planned to tackle was rated “level five,” the most difficult rapids you could traverse with a reasonable expectation of survival. To make matters worse, the river was at its lowest level of the year, which meant there would be more exposed rocks than usual.

Still, I think the most intimidating part of the whole deal—aside from the two-page legal waiver we signed—was the fact that each one of the seventeen rapids on this stretch of the river had a charming moniker such as “The Devil’s Toilet Bowl,” “The Muncher,” “Gnashing Jaws,” “The Terminator,” “The Washing Machine,” and my personal favorite, “Commercial Suicide.” (Kind of makes you wonder how that last one got its name, doesn’t it?)

When we arrived at the staging area, Devi and I couldn’t help notice that we were ten to fifteen years older than all the other assembled adrenaline junkies. One married couple our age showed up at the last minute, but the husband fell and broke his finger on the steep path down to the river, so they had to drop out. (His wife was wearing nail polish, gold jewelry, and designer clothes which suggested she didn’t fully grasp the program in the first place.)

Our big yellow raft, one of five in the fleet, was crewed by a pleasant young couple from Holland; a compact red-haired Irishman named Steven; our African helmsman, Gordon; plus Devi and me. I was assigned to the port bow on the theory it might be useful to have a few extra kilos up front if the raft began to flip over backwards. I was joined in the front by Steven, the Irishman, whose chief qualification for the bow position was that he was a complete raging lunatic.

I’ve never sky dived or bungee jumped, so the first few rapids of the Zambezi will have to qualify as the most adrenaline-soaked half hour of my life. The first cascade of the day, Morning Glory, looked more like a small waterfall. We could hear it roaring a hundred yards ahead of us. Gordon, the helmsman, picked out the best course. Then everyone followed his orders to paddle like demons. The raft was sucked into the torrent and whoosh, down we went. Our stomachs dropped from under us, and we were suddenly paddling air. Then bash! the front end of the raft hit the river, and Steven and I were temporarily submerged beneath the raging water. Then the stern of the raft crashed down behind us and we popped back up into the air. That’s when our real work began. Steven and I had to throw our combined weight forward immediately to prevent the raft from flipping backwards into the drink. Then we had to get our paddles up to fend off the boulders flying toward us at twenty miles an hour.

There were two reasons why Steven and I were determined to keep the boat upright and not end up as what the guides drolly called “swimmers.” First of all, once you are out of the boat the swirling rapids tend to pin you underwater for thirty seconds to a minute before spitting you out downstream—not a pleasant prospect. Secondly, the Zambezi is absolutely teeming with crocodiles. The guides assured us that the crocs avoided the white water in favor of the languid pools by the river’s edge. But, honestly, who wants to count on that?

Anyway, I’m proud to tell you that between Gordon’s helmsmanship, the crew’s esprit de corps, Steven’s frightening zealotry, and my sheer weight up front, ours was the only raft in the fleet that navigated all seventeen rapids in an upright position. Some of our crew, including Devi, fell out a few times, but that was nothing. One of the other rafts capsized so often, its crew became known as “the swim team.” When we completed the run, I crumpled ashore, bruised and bone-tired but proud that I could keep up with the youngsters.

In that brief halcyon moment when I felt like a young warrior, I didn’t imagine that the worst was yet to come. You see, the fact that we kept descending a series of rapids for twenty-five miles should have tipped me off to the fact that the climb back up to the rim of the canyon was becoming progressively more daunting. By the time we concluded our kamikaze run, we were nearly a thousand feet below the plain. And since there was no incline, cable car or other deus ex machina to spirit us out of the gorge, our only means of egress was to trudge up a steep path with more than 750 hand-cut steps. That, if you’re counting, is the equivalent of seventy-five flights of stairs—which may not be a big deal for all the 150-pound twenty-year-olds on the expedition, but my battered forty-one-year-old carcass wasn’t exactly fine-tuned for the task.

Devi, of course, skipped ahead of me like a happy mountain goat. Then all the guys passed me. Then some of the girls. Finally, the African bearers who were hauling deflated hundred-pound rafts on their shoulders overtook me. I can’t tell you how relieved I was that there were three or four chubby young women on the expedition who were actually in worse shape than I was. Still, it was manifestly humiliating to arrive at the top fifteen minutes after the frontrunners. Even more so that Gordon, our African helmsman, felt compelled to lag back to make sure I got there without suffering a coronary.

When we were ten steps from the rim, I used the last wisp of breath in my burning lungs to tell Gordon to jump on my back.

“Why ya wahnt me to do dat?” he asked, looking at me like I was some sort of foreign pervert.

“Just as a joke.”

Gordon shrugged and jumped on my back. I emerged over the top of the rim into a crowd of thirty people sitting around drinking beer and swapping war stories.

“Sorry I’m late,” I puffed, “but Gordon here couldn’t quite make it up the steps.” Of course, Gordon had a washboard stomach and rippling leg muscles and looked like a poster boy for steroids. So no one really bought it, but at least I’d salvaged my middle-aged pride with humor—which is more that I can say for my middle-aged legs, because for the next five days, I could barely walk.

¹⁹ A circular open-air dining pavilion enclosed by a fence made from sticks