Chapter 17

Flight of the Damned

Cape Town, South Africa

November 14

It wouldn’t be right to bid adieu to Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe, without mentioning the falls themselves. Three hundred feet high and more than a mile wide, Victoria Falls are exquisitely dramatic—a bona fide wonder of the world. In the Kololo language, the falls are called Mosi-oa-Tunya—The Smoke that Thunders—and most of the year, thick veils of mist rise from the gorge in such quantities that the falls themselves are obscured. But in the dry season, the vista is spectacular.

I might also add that our view was unimpeded by anything so pragmatic as guardrails. Had we been so inclined, we could have sauntered to the brink of the chasm and dangled our feet over the edge. This, of course, is not the ideal arrangement for small children. Even with Lucas on the baby leash, we had our hands full keeping all three of our progeny from tumbling into the rainbowed mist. As we slouched back to town, Devi and I agreed that this was one wonder of the world we might have skipped until the children were older.

After eight exhilarating days in the wilds of Botswana and Zimbabwe, we boarded a flight south to Johannesburg, South Africa. The plane was four hours late—not unusual for Africa—and by time we set down, it was early evening. Our hotel was in a well-heeled white suburb called Rosebank. According to Moses, our African cabby, Rosebank and nearby Sandton were the only neighborhoods left in Johannesburg where you could still walk the streets at night. He said the rest of Johannesburg was practically off-limits to white people. And when we told him we planned to rent a van and drive ourselves to a game reserve in the Eastern Transvaal, he burst into a hearty laugh and roared, “Don’t make any wrong turns on the way out of town.”

Devi and I had no way to know whether Moses was exaggerating, but we couldn’t help noticing that every house we passed had high cinder block walls topped with glistening razor wire or shards of broken glass. Once we settled into our hotel room, and the kids fell asleep, Devi said, “What do you think? Should we still try to drive ourselves across South Africa?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Maybe it’s not as bad as he says. When foreign tourists come to New York City, I’m sure the cabbies try to frighten them, too.”

“Yea, but in New York, we know where its safe and where it isn’t. We don’t have the same advantage here.”

It was a good point—so we fished out our guidebook to see what the author had to say on the subject.

“Look at this,” said Devi. “He actually recommends a visit to Soweto and downtown Johannesburg. He says these areas offer ‘a glimpse of the country’s future.’” But further down the page, Devi found a more sobering note: “Of course, there is a good chance of being mugged, or worse.”

The author went on to suggest that tourists travel in groups or hire a professional bodyguard, and he warned that carjacking and highway banditry were very much on the rise. Those caveats alone might have dissuaded us from a South African motor tour, but the following day we met someone who’d been shot through the thigh during a carjacking, and that pretty much settled the issue. We cancelled our rental car and hired an armed driver to take us to the game reserve.

The driver, recommended by the hotel, was a burly, blonde, young, half-English, half-Afrikaner²⁰ man named Walter. He had a pleasant demeanor, a pistol under his seat and radically right-wing views on Nelson Mandela’s ANC²¹, race relations, and gun control. As we rolled out of Jo’burg, he fired off a fusillade of reactionary opinion that made everyone else in the van cringe. But by the time we reached the green hills of Eastern Transvaal, his mood had mellowed, and he regaled the children with tales of Jock of the Bushveldt, a famous Transvaaler dog that rescued his master from all manner of wild animals.

South Africa is a huge country—twice the size of France—and during our seven-hour drive east we saw stark contrasts between its regions. First we passed through the bleak gold-mining district surrounding Johannesburg, full of slag heaps and scarred earth. Then we found ourselves in farm country that, except for the iron-red dirt, could have been anywhere in the American Midwest. Eventually, the crops gave way to sheep and cattle ranches that were spread across rolling hills reminiscent of Northern California. Just when we thought we couldn’t be in Africa anymore, we rolled into Lydenberg, a medium-sized market town where colorfully-garbed Swazi women carried babies on their backs and impossible loads on their heads. After that, we climbed into the Drakensberg, a rugged mountain range that delineates South Africa’s mile-high interior plateau. There we beheld stunning mountain vistas, verdant gorges, and dozens of feathery waterfalls. Finally, we dropped onto a flat, sun-beaten scrubland called the lowveld.

Our particular destination in the lowveld was Makalali, one of several private game reserves clustered around the periphery of Kruger National Park. Our three-day stay at Makalali was, hands down, the biggest splurge of our entire round-the-world trip. But the brochure promised an up-close game experience for the kids so we decided to bite the bullet.

An earnest young South African naturalist named Werner Smith met us at the gates of Makalali. Werner had short hair, black horn-rimmed glasses, and a khaki uniform that looked like it just came back from the dry-cleaners. He drove us ten miles through the bush to a riverside camp that was a whimsical fusion of tribal architecture and Western luxury. There was an open-air dining boma, a small swimming pool, and six spacious sleeping huts. The camp was embarrassingly well-staffed with three nature guides, two cooks, several Shangaan game trackers, and a fellow called a muchinda, who was more or less our butler.

The kids wanted to get out into the bush as soon as possible, so we all piled into an open Land Rover equipped with a two-way radio, a spotlight, and a formidable Czech elephant gun. Werner drove, and Jeffrey, our Shangaan tracker, perched on a seat mounted above the front bumper.

Jeffrey immediately demonstrated his tracking prowess by locating a herd of twelve giraffe. Then, as dusk approached, we followed a trail of fresh excrement to the first herd of rhinos we’d seen in Africa. The rhinos were prehistorically regal, and one of the beasts had a cute (if you can use that word for a rhinoceros) three-foot calf that mesmerized the children. Even Lucas sat perfectly still as we inched our way toward the edge of the herd.

When darkness fell, Werner told us it was time to track lions. For obvious reasons, public game reserves in southern Africa don’t usually allow tourists to wander around after dark, but Makalali was privately owned, so we were free to explore. Jeffrey pulled out a powerful handheld spotlight. Werner rechecked his rifle. Then we jolted over miles of rough track reconnoitering miles of pitch-black bushveldt. We finally zeroed in on a dry river gulch. Werner slid the Land Rover down a steep embankment while Jeffrey scanned the riverbed with his searchlight.

Just crashing through the bush at night hunting for lions was a wonderful adventure for the children, but when Jeffrey finally used his spotlight to pick out a sleek lioness nursing a pair of cubs, the kids were beyond ecstatic. The lioness squinted in the bright light, but apparently thought it too much trouble to move her cubs, so the kids got to sit in the Land Rover ten yards off “oohing” and “awing” for more than fifteen minutes. Finally, the mother and cubs wandered off, and we moved on to the next nocturnal wonder, a cute little bush baby with gleaming bug-eyes sitting in a tree.

When we finally returned to camp, we washed the dust off in an open-air shower and made our way toward the boma for a magnificent dinner of Indian-spiced beef with chutney, barbecued guinea fowl, grits, Ethiopian sweet potatoes, and oranges in mint sauce. We were also introduced to our camp mates: an American wine magnate and his wife, a down-to-earth Irish couple from Cape Town who won their trip to Makalali in a magazine contest, and a well-dressed Parisian honeymoon couple—Alain and Muriel—who excused themselves right after dessert. Twenty minutes after they departed, while the rest of us were sipping coffee and cognac, we heard a disturbing shriek emanate from the honeymoon cottage. At first, we couldn’t make out what the young bride was screaming, but quickly we realized it was, “Help! Help me, please!”

This posed something of a dilemma for the three fresh-faced game guides at the table. On the one hand, it was the first night of Alain and Muriel’s honeymoon, and the guides really had no way to assess Muriel’s savoir faire in matters marital. On the other hand, we were in the middle of the African bush, and the dewy French couple might be besieged by a troop of baboons.

“What do you think?” Werner said to Chris, one of the other guides. “Should we check it out?”

“I don’t know, Werner,” Chris replied uncomfortably. “It might be a bit … indiscreet.”

But then another scream pierced the night air, and the guides forsook discretion for gallantry. As they charged to the rescue, the rest of us made no pretense whatsoever of resuming our dinner conversation. The first thing we heard was Werner shouting, “Wake up, Thomas! Wake up!”

Thomas was the armed guard who was supposed to protect us from the neighborhood wildlife. And the fact that he could sleep undisturbed through five minutes of blood-curdling shrieks did little to enhance our sense of security. Next, we heard some muffled cries, some male voices murmuring, and then silence.

Ten minutes later—which seemed like an eternity—Werner and Chris returned to the boma.

“What was it, man?” demanded Dermot, the Irishman. “Baboons? Hyenas? Or just her brutish husband?”

Werner smiled. “None of the above,” he replied. “It was only a mouse.”

With that, the entire table collapsed in hysterics.

The next morning at dawn, we joined Werner for a bushcraft lesson.

Up until this point, I’d have to admit that all the scruffy dry shrubs on the lowveld looked remarkably similar to me. But as we strolled through the bush, Werner supplied a name and practical use for nearly every plant we encountered.

“If you find yourself in the bush without a toilet kit,” said Werner, “there’s no need to worry, because everything is right here.”

“Where?” asked Willie, surveying the parched landscape.

“Right here,” said Werner, cracking a twig off a bush. “This is from a magic guary bush. You can fray the end of the twig, and use it as a toothbrush.” He demonstrated. “Over here is a leadwood tree. Its wood contains fluoride. You burn it and mix the ash with water to make toothpaste. And if you need toilet paper, you can peel the bark off this wattle tree. “See,” he said, handing Willie a piece, “it’s soft.”

Werner taught the children how to use anise seed for deodorant, sickle bush leaves as a toothache poultice, and common spike thorn as a diarrhea remedy. He showed them big black dung beetles rolling balls of elephant feces down the trail and thousands of communal spiders constructing a gigantic web. But I think Werner made the deepest impression during his discussion of poisonous snakes.

“There are three venomous snakes indigenous to this region,” he said, “and they strike in three completely different ways. The puff adder never flees. He coils like a rock. If you’re very still and careful not to step on him, he’ll pretty much leave you alone. The black mambo, on the other hand, is lightening-quick. He springs up and strikes you high on the body. If you see a black mambo, it’s best to run away.”

“Don’t worry,” said Willie, “I will.”

“Either of those can kill you,” continued Werner. “But the most deadly by far is the vine snake. Its venom will stop your heart in half an hour.

“How do you get away from that one?” asked Willie.

“Ahh, that’s a bit of a problem,” replied Werner, “because vine snakes attack by dropping out of tree branches. There’s really not too much you can do about it.”

The kids began to nervously scan the branches above them. While they were doing that, Werner took a few steps forward and kicked a two-inch scorpion across the dust. The scorpion curled its spiked tail over its head, poised to strike.

“Hey, be careful,” yelled Willie, “scorpions are poisonous.”

“I know,” said Werner, smiling, “but this little guy doesn’t have a big enough stinger to penetrate my boot.”

“But what if he did sting you?” asked Willie.

“Ah, well, in that case, I’d walk to that tree over there, sit down, and enjoy my last minutes on earth.”

Willie was duly impressed with Werner’s bravado, but after that last demonstration, neither he nor Kara would wear sandals until we left Makalali.

All this talk of poisonous creatures brings up an important point. Devi and I are both aware that we took certain risks by bringing our children on an African safari. We tried to ameliorate those risks by learning the rules and following them conscientiously. But the risks were there nonetheless, and anyone who’s thinking of bringing small children on a safari should consider them very carefully. That being said, I would have to characterize our forays into the African bush as the most wondrous, adventurous, and captivating segment of our trip to date. The African wildlife engaged the children’s imagination—and intellect—far more than anything they saw in Europe, and their genuine enthusiasm and thirst for knowledge made these safaris far more enjoyable for Devi and me. In fact, I couldn’t even imagining coming here without the children. The whole time we would have been saying, “Oh, Kara would’ve loved this” or “Willie would have been amazed by that.” So if you asked us, at this point, to name the most thrilling place in the world to take a seven- to twelve-year-old child, I’d have to say nothing beats a wildlife safari. We’d also tell you, by the way, to leave your three-year-old at home.

After three days at Makalali, Walter, our driver, recovered us at the front gate and drove us back to Jo’burg. At one point, hailstones the size of grapes pelted our van, but eventually we made it back to our Rosebank hotel safe and sound. The next morning, we drove to the airport to catch a flight to Port Elizabeth on South Africa’s southern coast. When we arrived at the airport, we were pleased to learn that our Com Air flight was actually on time, a rarity for Africa. That joy was short-lived, though, because what should have been a run-of-the-mill two-hour flight from Johannesburg to Port Elizabeth somehow turned into a ghastly twenty-four-hour voyage of the damned.

The flight began routinely enough, but as we approached Port Elizabeth, we encountered high winds, rocky turbulence, and dense fog. The pilot tried to land, but when we were only about a hundred feet above the runway, he pulled up sharply and retracted the landing gear.

“Due to leck of visibility, we cahn’t lend at Port Elizabeth at this time,” he announced. “So we’re going to Bloemfontein to refuel. Then we’ll try it again.” The passengers issued a collective groan, and Devi and I pulled out a map to see exactly where Bloemfontein was.

Forty-five minutes later, we set down in a sunny farm town in the heart of the Orange Free State. We lolled around the airport lounge while the plane refueled. Then, as we were about to re-board, a Com Air employee announced that Port Elizabeth was still socked in, and that we were returning to Johannesburg instead. A dozen frustrated passengers pulled out their cell phones, and we heard the first murmurs of insurrection.

By the time we reached Jo’burg it was three in the afternoon. Four and a half hours into the trip, and we were right back where we started. The gate attendant said we’d take another crack at 3:30, but when 3:30 came and went, she sent us to the cafeteria for a complimentary lunch. When about half the passengers had their food, Com Air suddenly announced that they were re-boarding the plane, and that everyone should return to the gate immediately. Those lucky enough to have gotten some food shoved it into their mouths. The rest protested bitterly, but we all scuttled back to the gate like the pathetic lemmings we were. Somehow, we lost two passengers in the process—which meant that every single suitcase had to be pulled off the plane and identified by its owner. This forty-five-minute process was supposed to prevent someone from leaving a bomb on the plane—a plan several passengers were actively considering.

As we settled into our seats for the third time that day, the pilot made another announcement. In America, the cabin crew tends to report delays and problems—no matter how dire—with a flat Chuck Yeager–type calm, but the Com Air pilot made no such concessions to decorum. “We’re goin’ beck to Port Elizabeth,” he said in an irritated tone. “But I’ll till you people this. If I cahn’t see the runway, I’m not going to lend this plen, and I don’t care whet you have to say about it.” The social contract between passengers and crew was clearly beginning to fray.

The pilot’s ultimatum proved prophetic. We flew to Port Elizabeth, and circled the airport several times. Once again, the pilot engaged the landing gear, but just above the runway, he pulled up and beat another bumpy retreat. “No way I’m going to lend in that fog,” the captain announced. “We’re going bawck to Bloemfontein.”

At that point, several passengers, including the young linguistics professor directly in front of me became openly mutinous. “Why the hill cahn’t we lawnd in East London or George?” he screamed, naming two nearby airports. “This is the most pathetic airline I’ve ever been on. We could have walked to Port Elizabeth by now.”

A frazzled flight attendant rushed over and screamed at him. “The seatbelt sign is on! You hahf to sit down … now!”

He did so, grumbling, but then a larger than average Afrikaner—which is to say very large indeed—rose defiantly from his seat and yanked a bottle of cheap brandy from the overhead bin. He stood in the aisle ostentatiously swilling his grog straight from the jar. The flight attendants had the good sense not to challenge him, and after a while, he started stumbling up and down the aisles striking up drunken conversations with the other passengers.

I don’t know if you’ve ever heard drunken Afrikaans, but the closest approximation is the Klingon language on Star Trek. It gives a whole new meaning to the word “guttural.” At one point, this inebriated behemoth stumbled up to Lucas, who was sitting in Devi’s lap, and said, “Till your eddy ah said you ev a beautiful Mommy.”

“Tell him yourself,” I said from across the aisle.

“Ah shit, ah’m sorry,” he said breathing warm brandy in my face. “Ah didn’t mean a thing by it. Ah really didn’t.” After that, I had a new best friend.

At 7:00 P.M.—nine hours into the flight—we landed in Bloemfontein for the second time that day. At that point, Devi and I made a good-faith attempt to bail out and drive ourselves to Port Elizabeth. We figured we might have better luck with carjackers and highwaymen than with Com Air. But, unfortunately, there was no way to retrieve our luggage and no rental cars available. So an hour later, we slumped back onto our Sisyphean plane, which for some undisclosed reason returned once again to our point of origin in Johannesburg.

The children, I’m proud to say, comported themselves angelically during the entire prolonged fiasco, and by the end of the day, even two-and-a-half-year-old Lucas knew how to buckle his own seatbelt. When we finally stumbled off the plane in Jo’burg, he looked up brightly and said, “That was a really long trip, Mommy.”

Devi didn’t have the heart to tell him that six flights and twelve hours later, we were exactly where we started.

²⁰ Afrikaners are descended from the mostly Dutch settlers who came to the Cape Colony in the late seventeenth century.

²¹ The African National Congress political party