African Terror

I don’t mind dying; I just don’t want to be there when it happens.

                                                                       Jimmy Buffet

The bloated African moon hung fat and low in the night sky when I jerked awake. Something was terribly wrong. I lay still, trying to collect my thoughts… trying to get my bearings.

 South Luangwa Park Zambia, came to mind. In our 3-month drive across Africa Smilin Mike and I had visited dozens of game parks but Luangwa was as far off the beaten track and into the heart

Africa as one good gets. A hundred miles of dirt track just to get to the Parks gate. A hundred miles of corrugated hell that had shaken one door and the gas tank from the Isuzu’s rusty frame.

 The entrance to Luangwa Park proved as primitive as the drive in. A thatch guardhouse manned by a tattered carbine-wielding ranger, over looking the swollen Luangwa River. A rustic lodge constructed of thatch & sticks, three little pig’s style, clung tentatively to its banks.

We had arrived long after dark set up camp on the rivers edge and sought the lodge’s simple open-air bar. A young Muzungu, white guy, sat in quiet conversation with the black bartender. They were discussing the lion that had apparently smashed in the door to one of the lodge’s room’s two weeks earlier and drug a screaming tourist to her grisly death. The beast had enjoyed the easy meal and could be heard grunting & coughing still across the river as we settled in with a cold Tusker Beer.  The white fellow was doing his Thesis on Voodoo from the UC. Berkley. He had chosen Luangwa for it’s sheer remoteness. I couldn’t have agreed more starring out across the moonlit river, the grunts of hippos, the insane laughter of hyenas filling the tiny bar. He informed us that the park was rarely visited due to the difficulty in getting there and the current political unrest in Zambia’s government. It was a magical evening, cold beer in hand, perched in the heart of darkness.

Returning to our camp that night however brought a cold slap of reality. An errant troop of baboons had ransacked our meager belongings, ripping the tents to make off with whatever could be carried. Our sleeping bags were found lumped in the bushes, three months of exposed film dangling from tree limbs, clothing scattered & defecated on. We gathered the mess, cursing the vile creatures & lamenting our losses, the worst being the torn tent. It is imperative in Africa’s game parks to have shelter once night falls. Even the thinnest of nylon tents will detour lions, hyenas, reptiles & insects.

To sleep in the open or in a ripped tent is to invite disaster, so prudently I spent an uncomfortable night in the troopers front seat rocked by the roars of the man-eater.

 The next few days found us deeper & deeper into the parks interior. We had repaired the lacerated tent as best we could, the baboons having made off with the sewing kit. Our days were spent chasing herds of zebra & elephants across dusty plains; our nights nervously perched about the roaring campfire, serenaded by the screams & cries of life and death in the African bush.

 This particular night’s camp overlooked the languid Luangwa river it’s steep muddy banks pockmarked with nests of swallows & Carmine Bee Eaters, it’s tepid waters swirling with giant crocodiles and grunting hippos. The setting sun, blood red from bush fires & dust clouds, turned the entire scene surreal as the prehistoric reptiles tore at the corpse of a bloated hippo below. The stench and sound of rotted flesh being ripped apart made this place a fascinating hell on earth. Fairly confident that the creatures below could not scale the eroded bank to our frail camp I squirmed into a filthy mummy bag, it’s zipper long jammed from 3 months in the African dirt.

 It was a fitful night constantly being jerked awake by some un-holy blood-curdling scream when finally I dozed, my nerves exhausted.

 But now something was terribly wrong, the smooth cold weight of a reptilian body lay across my naked thigh, curled between my legs, it lay still…waiting. My first reaction was panic, to rid myself of the bag & it’s loathsome occupant when suddenly a deeper fear seized me. It was a snake, a large one by the weight; it had gained entrance through the torn tent flap seeking the warmth of my sleeping body. With nearly 30 varieties of poisonous snakes in southern Africa chances were very good this was one of them. It would be impossible to extract myself from the jammed mummy bag without disrupting the creature’s slumber. The situation I’d awoken into was nearly un-thinkable in it’s sheer horror. I could not understand why my heart went on beating, my mind continued to race in panic, yet I could do nothing but lay without moving, awaiting my fate like a doomed prisoner, like a rat in a python’s cage…the terror was over-whelming.

“Mike!!” I whispered, my dry voice cracked pitiful in the vast African night. It was useless. He was inside the Trooper, windows up, parked 30 feet away. I was alone and sick with fear.

With my one free arm I slowly, carefully groped about the tent, searching out the flashlight.

I cursed beneath my breath at the stupidity of the whole thing. Stupid to sleep in a ripped tent, stupid baboons to have run off with scissors, knives, or any tool to extract myself, stupid jammed zipper, stupid God-forsaken place this Africa…stupid me…sick…sick…

I found the light & ever so slowly positioned it to shine towards the loathsome weight in my crotch. With my left hand I so, so slowly lifted the bag from my naked body & peered in.

Horror of Horrors!! Meeting my eyes in a cold black reptilian stare, it’s unmistakable ugly, triangular head raised inches above my privates was a Puff Adder, one of Africa’s deadliest snakes.

My stomach wretched, sending a throat burning spume of vomit into my mouth: over cracked lips it slowly dribbled down the side of tear stained cheeks to coagulate in tangled hair.

I was a dead man.

 

To be continued: