Around the World in 80 Dinners - Bill Jamison [100]
Ranger Darrell, a good friend of Juan’s, calls on the radio at this point to relay that the lion family has moved into open grassland. Juan takes off in that direction slowly. “We want to give him time to clear out of the area before we go in. Two Rovers at once might make the lions nervous. Darrell and I grew up together as local farmboys, learning with each other how to hunt and how to track animals by their spoor and the freshness of their dung. We know every inch of this land.” The latter seems a slight exaggeration when we cross paths with Darrell as he’s leaving the lions’ roost and we’re heading in. Darrell plops his Rover into a big pothole, causing Juan to snicker and say, “I’ll give you some driving lessons later today.”
So begins the longest fifteen minutes of our lives. Juan pulls up about the same distance as before from the lioness and cubs, who are spread farther apart from one another this time. The mother glares at us, stands up slowly, and takes a few steps toward us, settling down again when she’s clearly closer to us than we are to either of her cubs. The unexpected advance rattles everyone except maybe Juan. No one utters a sound, but at least sixteen eyes grow to the size of saucers.
After giving her a minute to relax again, Juan puts the Rover in reverse and starts making an arc through the tall grass around the lioness and cubs toward the more tranquil king of the jungle, slouching around in the rear of the pride as if he’s waiting for his wife to bring home dinner and a six-pack. She watches us keenly every foot of the way, never even blinking, it seems. When Juan is around to her right side, ninety degrees from where we were and only several yards more distant, he hits a deep hole hidden in the grass that brings us to an abrupt halt. Normally when something like this happens—we get marooned in mud another day—the passengers hop out and help push if necessary. Not a good idea just now.
Juan kicks the Rover into its most powerful four-wheel-drive gear and rocks the vehicle back and forth aggressively, but we’re dead stuck. Again, everyone remains silent, with at least two of us thinking about Juan’s earlier offhand comment about “helpless prey.” The ranger loads the rifle that’s always secured to the dashboard and rests it in his arms pointed toward the lioness, who has craned her neck around to maintain the fixed stare. He then quietly calls Darrell on the radio to ask him to come tow us out of the jam, puts the rifle in firing position, and takes aim at the huntress, who, he tells us later, would reach us if she wanted to in about two seconds, time for one quick shot. The five-minute wait for the arrival of the other Rover seems longer than the process it took to produce the two cubs.
Darrell positions his vehicle, full of other alarmed guests, directly in front of ours, supposedly conveying an image of a single, extra-large benign creature. All four lions watch us now, wondering no doubt, What the hell? Darrell loads his rifle and directs it at the lioness, after which Juan climbs out of the doorless driver’s seat—leaving Bill openly exposed to a bounding leap—and connects a tow rope between the Rovers. He gets behind the wheel again, relieves Darrell from the sharpshooter role, and his buddy floors the accelerator, bouncing us out of our black hole. The lions, never moving, keep looking as the tandem Rovers return to the road and disappear out of sight.
When we’re safely away, Juan and Darrell stop to disconnect the tow line. “About those driving lessons,” Darrell quips, “I think I better teach the class.”
In the first words any of our group has spoken in some time, Anna the Swede says, “Now I’m just going to have to throw these panties away. And they used to be so sexy.”
The rest of our three-day safari is less traumatic on everyone’s nerves and underwear. It starts for us with an early lunch in the Cape Town airport before our noon flight to Port Elizabeth. The terminal’s featured eatery is Spur Steak Ranches, a member of a local chain that