Out of the Delta and into the Air
05/16/10
We followed elephant footprints the size of medium pizzas, which were fingerprint detailed with curved lines. Moving under the orange sunrise glow, the only sound was our pants rubbing together and branches snapping passed. With the sliding grip of sand, we kicked our feet through the grasses, only stopping to use the cover of trees to spot animals before crossing the grasslands.
Almost all of us, even our guides this time, were smart enough to wear duller greys, blacks, greens and browns, except the American moron Pablo who wore bright maroon.
I could not stand Pablo and his girlfriend Casey for good reasons. Whenever Choppa-chaw spoke to them, they turned away and ignored her. When she added to the group’s conversation, they looked at each other and laughed, openly insulting her under their arrogant breaths. I wanted to put them in their place, but Choppa-chaw told me to say nothing, so I respected her wishes.
She was right, afterall. Casey had proven to have the IQ of a walnut. She always had the constant look of a toddler confused by Raffi lyrics. With the sides of his narrow head shaved and skinny enough arms to belong to a three-year-old girl, Pablo resembled a red-headed squirrel addicted to meth, which I suppose, explained his walnut brain attraction. He did little to nothing to help with mutual cleaning and packing, even stating once “I don’t wash dishes” after a dinner, then walked away.
After an uneventful walk where I spotted for the group only distant zebras and ostriches, we returned to camp to find Boxie-boo relaxed reading a book. She choose to skip the 6 a.m. bush walk. We all packed up and jumped aboard the mokoros out of the delta. Boxie-boo was already thrilled she was only a few hours away from her first shower in days. Her happiness, though, was short-lived.
Out on the water in front of hippos, our poler Seven left us, motionless, at least five metres from shore. He walked in the two-foot deep water to another mokoro casually to help re-pack the lopsided boat. Meanwhile, the hippos dipped below the water, slowly reappearing a few metres closer each time they resurfaced.
“Seven! The hippos are coming!” Boxie-boo yelled at.
He responded by laughing. Their hippo grunting loudened. We both prepared to jump ship.
With the rising sun behind her, Boxie-boo’s face was ash and bone, rock solid and expressionless. I could sense her fear, feeling the boat trembling on water from her vibrations. I scanned outwards with an eagle’s concentration, then spotted the hippo prop out of the water a few metres closer, again, now within 100 yards. Boxie-boo’s body language moved into my mind.
“If it comes any closer, I’m jumping to shore. I don’t care if anybody laughs. That is the most dangerous animal in the world,” I said, looking back at Boxie-boo more serious than an erection problem. It was only the night before when another poler named Carlo told us his friend was killed while fishing by a hippo in the very area we were motionless.
Boxie-boo leaned forward whispering into my shadow. “Should we jump?” I did not know. The sun grazed her shoulders, turning her skin a rich olive covered in bumps from the cold. My keenest sense was visual, watching the small waves rocking the boat, close enough to see white water spray from the hippos’ noses like compressed air.
I felt Seven behind us, even before he spoke and pushed us further along by the others who were pinned against the shore for protection. Looking back at this event, even days later, I recalled that sense of helplessnses, the stark and flawless feeling of uncertainty. To jump or not to jump.
After a challenging drive that included getting stuck in a metre-deep pond, we relaxed back at the Delta Rain Campsite. I enjoyed the unguarded movements of Boxie-boo’s face, soft as a child, when she returned from the shower refreshed. Although the shower was made of red cracked pavement that pooled the water by our toes brown, steep downwards at a slant, it may have been the best shower on the trip after a couple days spent perspirating in the sun, covering our bodies in dirt that glued to our sweat.
In the late afternoon, Choppa-chaw treated Boxie-boo and I to a scenic flight over the Okavango Delta. We were joined by Julia and Till from Germany and Bob from the US on a small, seven-seater plane.
During the flight, I retreated within myself as the engine was so loud communication meant screaming. The only sound that penetrated the propeller’s loud thrashing, was the group’s child-like giggles when the plane dipped sideways to circle herds. Choppa-chaw’s face was hooded towards the window, as if trying to retrieve some distant memory. With each family of elephants and herds of wildebeests, her look belied the quiet laughter in her words…”This is beautiful.” Indeed, it was. The blue delta waters, brown sand and green trees blended together like hazel eyes, so much alike they could live and die was one living entity.
Boxie-boo and I wanted to celebrate Choppa-chaw’s birthday properly. Although it was hard, we managed to surprise her with a bottle of red wine for dinner and a black forest cake for dessert.
Everyone said thank you for the cake, except for Squirrel Boy and Walnut Brain, but that did not matter. The others wished her a happy birthday and she spent the entire night and day smiling. That was all that mattered.
That’s all for now.
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