2 Game Drive (4 page)

T
he next morning, over scrambled eggs, toast and marmalade, we met with our tour leader, David, and the rest of the group.

David was dressed in a white linen suit that looked as if he might just have a panama hat around somewhere to go with it. I’m sure Jay approved, and was more than a little envious. David brought a bundle of local newspapers, which he handed to George to pass around. George looked as if he had had an extremely late night. He must have stayed at the bar long after we left.

David tapped on the little podium with a pointer. “Ladies and gentlemen! Today we will be embarking on a
splendid adventure,
which promises
rare excitement
to all of our
thousands
of international visitors, but particularly to those of you right here in this room.”

Along with lots of extra emphasis, David rolled the Rs on “rare” and “right” and “room.”

“South Africa is a
captivating
land of
amazing
beauty with an
astonishing
variety of flora and fauna.”

He tapped on the table with the pointer and then tucked it under his arm like a swagger stick.

“Now please direct your attention to the first of the brochures in the information packets I have prepared for you. We begin our adventure this morning with ...”

Jay passed me a note during the introductory speech:

Bleh.
David claims to have a missus somewhere, but he is gayer than I am, and he is not English, either. That accent is faker than my Rolex. He is probably from Jersey.

I had my own doubts about David’s British authenticity, but I didn’t care in the least. The itinerary he was describing sounded great, phony accent or no phony accent. I looked over the printed itinerary as he filled in the details.

The day’s plan called for us to have a short presentation on Cape Town and South Africa, followed by a city tour, lunch included, and an afternoon boat ride to Robben Island, where Nelson Mandela was imprisoned for so many years. Then we would be driven back to the V&A Waterfront for dinner at a lovely Belgian restaurant called Den Anker.

On the next day’s schedule was a tour to Cape Point and the Cape of Good Hope, then lunch with an afternoon tour of Simon’s Town and Kirstenboch Gardens. The following morning we were scheduled for an early flight to a tiny airport at Hoedspruit, near our private game reserve on the edge of Kruger National Park. Drivers from our safari lodge would pick us up in Land Rovers at the little airport and drive us into the game reserve.

“After four days of
drrrrrinking in
the
magnificent
flora and fauna of the camp, some of you will return to Johannesburg and then onwards home. Others will have a tour extension, allowing additional time back here in Cape Town to see other sights and discuss business arrangements and future bookings.”

Jay and I were booked for the extension. After the safari, we were scheduled to remain in Cape Town for a few days to meet with hotel people and other travel vendors. In those meetings we would finalize the specific venues and arrangements for the custom tour our agency was promoting.

We heard a lot of housekeeping details about the next day’s departure, received thick packets of handouts and brochures, and viewed a video of different properties offered by David’s company. Finally David dismissed us for a short break before the City Tour.

I stretched. “I’m going up to my room to dump all of this junk and get my camera, Jay. Need anything?”

“No, thanks,” he said, stuffing a newspaper in his man-bag. “I’m going to get some more rand out of the ATM and grab some water. I’ll meet you at the van.”

* * *

The housekeeper’s cart was at the door of my room as I came down the hall, and the door was partially open. I could hear someone rumbling around in the bathroom, apparently cleaning. I didn’t linger, just dropped all the stuff on the desk, grabbed my camera, and headed back to the elevator.

I almost bumped into George, who was making a few selections from the maid’s unattended cart.

“Ha! Caught you, George. Bet you didn’t think anyone would see you pilfering.”

He stiffened in self-righteous indignation. “I am
not pilfering. This stuff is for the guests and I am a guest. Want some of this bath gel?”

“No, thanks,” I laughed. “There’s plenty in my room.”

I caught the elevator back down, joined by George, whose pockets were bulging with maid-cart booty.

I saw only strangers in the lobby, so I walked straight through and out the front door to the parking area where the tour vans were waiting. George followed. Heading toward my assigned van, I jammed my
key card into the back pocket of my shorts. Those shorts were beginning to get a little too tight ... too much great food already on this trip. Unfortunately they were all I had, and the day was predicted to be hot. I could feel the glances at my rear end, even from George. I ignored the suggestive comments I overheard from the bell stand.

It might seem strange that I did not carry a purse, but I gave up purses on trips some time ago.
Huge purses look great, but they are also a huge pain. They just weigh you down and make you a target in sketchy situations. Also, people like Jay constantly give you stuff to carry for them.

“Here,” he’ll say, handing me some trophy he’s snagged, “Just stick this in your purse.” Eventually my bag would be overflowing with junk he didn’t remember handing to me in the first place.

It didn’t take me long to lose the purse habit and develop a new method. That was quite a change for me because girls in my hometown are born with purses in their hands. Southern women go all the way to their graves clutching handbags. Now, after years of lugging junk around, I am free. My serious money and stuff like passports and credit cards go in a neck purse under my shirt or in the room safe. My little walking around money goes in my pockets. That way, my hands are free and I’m less of a target for theft.

Outside in the bright morning sunlight of the hotel entrance, cars and trucks constantly arrived and departed. Motorcycles whizzed by, and people and luggage moved in and out in a sort of controlled confusion. We headed toward a line of vans from David’s tour company waiting at the hotel entrance. Our group was already loading. I found my van and waved bye to George, who was assigned to a different one.

Jay was seated in front, next to the driver’s seat, reading one of the local newspapers that David had distributed.

I climbed into the second row next to two sisters, Gwendolyn and Matilda, who were travel agents from a British agency in the Midlands and could almost have passed for twins. Both of them were middle-aged, round, and cheery, and had straight, short, blond-going-gray hairstyles, sturdy shoes, fanny packs, and blue eyes. They chattered
nonstop to anyone who would listen, finishing each other’s sentences.

“Why, hello, Sidney, it’s so nice to meet you, please call me Wendy—”

“And I’m Tilda. We’re from—”

“Birmingham. And you are from New—”

“York? We went there last year for the first time—”

“And we just loved it, didn’t we, Tilda?”

“My yes, Wendy, and everything had such—”

“Energy! That’s what we both noticed, wasn’t it, darling?”

Giggling in agreement, the sisters beamed at me, blond heads bobbing.

“Check this out,” Jay said, handing me the front page of the newspaper, folded in half.

“ ‘
Body Found in Garden of Landmark Hotel,
’ 
”
I read.

“They found a dead guy right after we left last night,” he murmured, “and after that, no one was allowed to enter or leave while they investigated. We were lucky to get out when we did, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said, scanning the story.

“Oh, my goodness, Tilly, look at this!”

One of the sisters was leaning over me, reading the headline.

I was finished with the story so I handed the paper over to her. Its contents launched them into a frenzy of speculation.

I didn’t hear a word. I was thinking back over the evening and my brief venture into that garden, wondering if I should call someone and describe the men I saw. “Jay—”

“Forget it,
Sidney. I know what you are thinking, but you didn’t really see anything. You just saw some guys talking. They could just as easily describe seeing you. Don’t get involved. Don’t call anyone. It could totally screw up our trip. Fugetaboudit, sweetie, unless you think that limb you tripped over was really a foot.”

The thought made me shudder, but I decided he was right. I had little to add and even the smallest delay could keep me in
Cape Town while the group left on safari.

“Give it a day, Sid. We’ll watch the news. They don’t
even know the cause of death yet. One day. It might be nothing but a heart attack. There’s a reason for that saying, ‘Don’t borrow trouble.’ Trouble seems to come your way even when you’re not looking for it. Lay low, babe. Chill.”

David poked his head into the van then, doing a head count. The sisters shoved the newspaper in his face, pelting him with questions. He said he didn’t know anything about it, had nothing to add to the story.

I sat silently staring out the window, remembering the dark garden as the van rolled out of the parking lot, headed to Table Mountain. Jay was right. I hadn’t seen much—just two men arguing.

Fortunately, the sights of the beautiful city quickly replaced the front page news in the British sisters’ thoughts. They were soon squealing over the scenery instead of the newspaper, which was fine with me. Wendy and Tilda warbled on the entire morning, commenting on everything we passed, drowning out the guide. They gasped, exclaim
ed, giggled, and photographed anything and everything.

No one else said a word. They couldn’t. I had to admire the sisters’ enthusiasm, but Jay looked ready to pinch their heads off.

During introductions at the morning seminar, David had mentioned that on safari we would be traveling on daily game drives, morning and evening. We would travel in the Land Rovers in groups of seven or so, along with a driver and a game spotter. Each day we would be assigned to the same vehicle, with the same fellow passengers, and usually the same driver and spotter, for the entire safari.

That meant that if we stayed cooped up in the car for too long with Wendy and Tilda, the odds were good that we could get trapped with them for the entire trip. I didn’t really mind. They were really very sweet, and their enthusiasm was endearing, but Jay didn’t feel the same way. He was seriously annoyed.

By the time we reached the famous Table Mountain Aerial Cableway station and were able to bail out of that chattering van and get in line for the ride up the mountain, Jay and I realized that we had better get busy.

We needed to find some new friends.

W
e were in a glass-walled cable car halfway up magnificent Table Mountain, buffeted by a strong wind. Though commonly called a cable car, it looked actually like a giant blue gondola, suspended on thick steel cables. The revolving floor was designed so that no passenger would be cheated of the amazing view. All of Cape Town and Table Bay glittered far below.

When the strange hand brushed lightly across my rear end in the crowded compartment, it was not just there for a friendly pat. I’m not a bad-looking girl and I’ve ridden crowded buses and subways all over the world. Pats I know and understand.

This was a treasure hunter. A thief.

But I am not a newbie and my credit card was not in my back pocket. The
pickpocket must have been pretty disappointed with the plastic hotel key card he stole instead.

I immediately turned around, searching the faces of the other passengers for clues, signs of guilt, but the perp was either a really good actor or had melted back into the crowd before I could spot him.

I didn’t scream. It wouldn’t do any good. I had been pick-pocketed once before in Athens on a jam-packed train. These petty thieves work worldwide in crowded subways, trains, and elevators. Like I said, I learned the hard way not to carry anything valuable in my back pockets.

“Jay,” I said, louder than normal, “watch your back. I think someone just lifted my
key card out of my back pocket.”

“Really?” he said, also in a loud voice, looking behind him at the others. “A pickpocket? Well, here,
Sidney, stand in front of me then. No one will mess with my pockets unless he wants his arm broken.”

He looked down at me, his voice quieter, “They didn’t get anything valuable, did they? I know you’re careful with what you put in your pockets.”

“No, they just got the key card and that little printed itinerary card that David gave us this morning. It doesn’t really matter. Both are easily replaced, but I hate it.”

“Of course you do, sweetie, and so do I, but don’t let it ruin your day. Bet that dude is disappointed. Those tight shorts really showed off the outline of what he probably thought was a credit card. What did you pay for those shorts, anyway? Five bucks?”

“No, ten. Okay, okay, I got them on closeout. Maybe eight. Look, I know they’re not designer like yours. I admit it. Don’t make me feel bad about that, too.”

“I’m not. I love you no matter how cheap your clothing is,
Sidney. Tell you what. You figure out who did the pick-pocketing and I’ll thump him, okay?”

I had to smile at that. That’s one of the great things about Jay. He is totally perceptive and he has this people magic. He knows exactly how to use his wit to make the best of a bad situation.

Whatever. The key card was gone forever. It was not a big deal, just invasive and annoying. Jay would give me his extra one, or I could get another at the front desk.

I wondered if Tilda might have captured the incident and the thief with her camera. She was right behind me on my left when it happened, and she was constantly snapping away at everything and everyone. I looked around for her, but she had apparently moved to the other side of the car. I didn’t want to shout, so I decided to quiz her after we unloaded at the top of the mountain.

There was also the slight possibility that the card had fallen out of my pocket earlier. I had taken the little itinerary card out for a look while we were waiting in line to board. Maybe I had unknowingly pulled the key card out along with it, and then dropped it. The touch I felt might have been a creep after all instead of a thief. But I didn’t think so. The itinerary card was gone too. I was pretty sure both items had been lifted.

Whatever. It could have been much worse.

No one else seemed to have noticed my tiny drama. Why would they, with this view?

People jammed against the windows, our group and a bunch of other tourists, all taking photos, admiring the scenery. Everyone gasped whenever a gust of wind swayed the
cable car.

The view of
Cape Town below, the mountain, the sun sparkling on the sea, the ride alone took my breath away. The loss of a key card certainly couldn’t spoil the thrill.

We were in the shadow of the mountaintop when the power failed. The lights went out, the floor stopped revolving, and we all screamed before falling silent.

Now the only sound was the whistle of the wind and the creaking of the cable.

I looked out the window at the ground, thousands of feet below.

Jay reached for my hand and gave it a little squeeze. I don’t do heights well, and he knows it. I’m not a big fan of vehicles that revolve, either.

The lights flickered twice, the mechanism started grinding, and the power came back on.

We began to revolve again and in a moment we were at the top of the mountain. Relief flowed through me and apparently everyone else, too, evident in all of the bad jokes and nervous laughter that rolled through the crowd after we made it to the top. Even the strangers among us were swept up in a camaraderie sparked by shared terror.

“I swear I just about wet my pants,” said Connie.

“Pip, pip,” chirped a cruise agent from Liverpool, “I say, that was almost as thrilling as being in one of those huge round bars atop a Cunard ship in a storm, what?”

My ears perked up at that. This guy really had no idea what he was talking about. What a phony. Everyone familiar with the cruise business knows that those high round bars are a signature feature of Royal Caribbean Cruise Line ships. RCCL, but not Cunard.

How could this guy call himself a travel agent? A cruise agent? A British cruise agent? He had either misspoken or he was the worst travel agent in England.

Or he was simply
weird. He was humming and chuckling to himself, rocking back on his heels. He whistled softly through the gap in his big front teeth, apparently believing that he had said something very clever. Peering through the window, he shaded his tiny pig’s eyes with meaty freckled hands. A long-billed cap was jammed onto his head with a few wisps of ginger hair escaping on the sides. A flap hanging from the back edge of the cap covered most of his thick neck. A rumpled safari shirt stretched across his belly, and his pants were the kind that zip off at the knee. He looked like a butcher on holiday, not a travel agent. His name tag said “Hello! My name is Dennis.”

The
cable car slid to a stop and the doors opened. We stepped out onto the platform, and I forgot all about the stolen key card, the balky engine, and Dennis.

I was blown away by the view.

Table Mountain is easily the most recognizable natural feature of South Africa. It is a giant, flat-topped granite, shale, and sandstone slab that dominates Cape Town. It is visible to ships over ninety miles out to sea. Ancient sailors must have been awed by it as well, for geologists say that the massive landmark rose from the sea some 250 million years ago.

David said that we were lucky to have such a clear day, for the mountain can often be suddenly shrouded in a thick white mist that locals call “the tablecloth.” He spoke of a legend about the mist being caused by a smoking contest between a Dutchman and the Devil. Because of the legend, the peak where the clouds begin to form is called “Devil’s Peak.”

After everyone had taken all the photos they wanted and fully admired the view, I finally got a chance to mention the pickpocket to Tilda. After a lot of clucking, she kindly checked her camera memory for an image. Nothing significant showed up. By then I regretted mentioning it at all, with all the fuss Tilda and Wendy were making.

David announced a short break. Most of the group headed for the restrooms and the coffee and gift shops, with Tilda and Wendy in the lead. Dennis was chatting up some boys selling souvenirs.

Checking my camera battery, I started down a boulder-lined path toward the edge of the mountain. I wanted good photos of the mountain called Lion’s Head and the famous Devil’s Peak, and of Table Bay, glowing azure blue far below us. Photos taken while on a fam trip are invaluable when it comes time to actually sell the trip to clients. With the pictures downloaded to my laptop, I’d be able to show them what they would personally experience while on their vacation.

“Where are you going,
Sidney?” Jay called out. “The shop is this way. Don’t you want coffee and a pastry?”

“I’ll grab something later. Right now I just want to get some good shots of this magnificent view.”

“Well, don’t get near the edge, sweetie,” he laughed. “I’d hate for your little ass to fall right off the Table. And you watch out on those lonely paths, too. Remember the pickpocket, and what the driver said in the van about the bad guys.”

I nodded and waved before walking against the wind toward the precipice. Soon all thoughts of schedules, sketchy people and dire warnings were shoved aside by the awe of what I was seeing.

We had received multiple warnings from the van driver and David that the more isolated areas of Table Mountain were prime places for muggings, particularly of unsuspecting tourists. But that day, the only creatures hiding in the rocks were the dassies, or rock hyraxes—ancient little mammals that share an ancestry with the elephant.

They don
’
t look like elephants, I thought, more like big, fat guinea pigs.

The dassies basked in the sun, their cute little eyes closed, the wind ruffling their light brown fur. One alert little fellow stood sentry, anxiously peering around. I stepped off the path into the rocks
, bent over, and crouched down, silently creeping closer to the little creatures, focusing my lens, hoping for a good shot.

A shadow passed over the sun, and the sentry dassie sounded a high-pitched bark of alarm, sending them all scurrying away. I was left alone, squatting among the rocks.

Well, not quite alone.

A tall Afrikaner
stood smiling down at me from the path, his white linen shirt ruffling in the breeze. His Dutch ancestry showed in his broad shoulders and strong face. That face seemed familiar, and at first I wondered if he could have been in the cable car with us, but I quickly realized that I would have noticed such a good-looking man.

He was tanned and handsome, with longish brown hair swept back from his face by the wind. He was clearly amused at the sight of me clambering up from the rocks, embarrassed at having been caught
with my fanny up in the air.

“There. I’ve spoiled your shot. I’m sorry, darling, but perhaps you’ll forgive me when you see where you almost trod.”

I followed his gaze to a spot near where I had crouched, just in time to see a large Cape cobra slither away into the rocks.

I shrieked and jumped back onto the path, shuddering, careening into my new friend. He threw his arms around me to halt my headlong, hysterical flight. His broad shoulders shook with laughter.

“Still, now, love. It’s quite all right. Be still. He’s gone now, and you’re quite safe here with me.”

I looked up into his sharp green eyes and wondered for a moment if that were true. He released me and grinned as I tried to gather my wits and my scattered belongings.

Why, oh why, Sidney, do you always manage to look like such an utter fool whenever an attractive man crosses your path?

“I wouldn’t go wandering about like that again, love, if I were you. As I suppose you now realize, there can be some rather bad things hidden among the rocks in this spectacular land.”

“Thank you,” I said, twisting my tangled black hair into a ponytail and securing it with a band. “You’re quite right. I wasn’t thinking. I guess I never have been very good at minding warnings.”

We both looked at the signpost, which clearly forbid stepping from the path and warned of danger. It even had
the outline of a snake drawn on it.

“Right, then,” he said with a wide smile, “Now, how about joining me for a drink, to calm those nerves?”

That sounded great to me.

We were just going up the steps of the restaurant when Jay appeared. Of course.
He had always had perfect timing.

“There you are,
Sidney. Where in the hell have you been? I’ve been looking all over this mountain for you. We’re going to be left. Everyone’s waiting.”

Crap
.

Jay was right. I was late. The others were waiting. I could see them all standing impatiently on the platform, rightfully annoyed, staring daggers at me
for being tardy. I had broken a cardinal rule of group travel: never keep the bus waiting.

I looked up at my new friend. “I guess we won’t have that drink after all. I’m with a group. I have to go. Thanks for the offer and for helping me on the path.”

“Anytime. I quite enjoyed rescuing you from the deadly serpent. Perhaps we’ll see each other again before you leave Africa. What is your name, lady? And how long will you be at the Mount Nelson?”

Jay gave me a fierce look and started shaking his head. He grabbed my hand, just as it finally dawned on me where I had seen this man before. This was the guy I had mistaken for Jay in the moonlit garden at the Nellie. No wonder he seemed familiar. I tried to pull away from Jay but he had a firm grip on my arm and was marching me forward.