Predators I Have Known - Alan Dean Foster [59]
Standing in the tent opening, my sister and I watched this peculiarly African ballet for about an hour until Cruella, furious and defeated, turned and stomped off into the nearest patch of forest.
On previous travels, I had been variously awakened from a sound sleep by the plaintive wail of emergency sirens, the carousing of drunken revelers, bawling lions, high seas, and, in Saint Petersburg, an attractive Russian hooker mistakenly sent to my room by a member of the staff at the hotel where I happened to be staying who hoped I might be in need of some nocturnal company. But never before by an elephant dueling with a car.
Cruella had her revenge, though. Slipping quietly into camp the following night, she proceeded to pummel her tormentor mercilessly, bending the driver’s side rearview mirror in half and putting one of her tusks right through the windshield on the passenger side. Viewing such damage, one suspects there must be places in Africa where you can buy elephant insurance for your vehicle.
While this destruction formed the basis for some predictable light banter on the day following Cruella’s Revenge, as it quickly came to be called, it was not taken lightly as we set out on our last morning’s hike at Tassi. Out on the open, bumpy, muddy surface, we could see for miles, but we knew we would have to be more cautious when we entered the patchwork forest. Somewhere in our immediate neighborhood brooded one seriously dyspeptic pachyderm, whom none of us had any desire to surprise.
When possible, all safari walks in Africa are done in the morning and the late afternoon, not only to avoid the heat of midday but because the animals do the same and those are the best times for wildlife sightings. As we walked, we encountered some red river hogs, a pair of sitatungas, and the usual exotic birds, but for the most part, that morning at Tassi tended toward tranquillity. As the sun rose, the humidity increased along with it. Off to my right, I could hear but not see the booming surf. With each boggy step, the thought of another dip in the ocean increased its appeal.
We were hiking out on the mucky, treeless flats parallel to a clump of forest. As with all tropical forests, wherever there is an absence of trees, the undergrowth explodes to produce what appears to be a solid wall of green. This is no reflection on the equal fecundity of the forest’s interior, which often boasts ample room between individual boles in which to walk, but rather has to do with the much greater availability of unobstructed sunlight. This is why tropical rivers appear to be lined with impenetrable jungle. Every square inch of space is filled with verdure as plants on the fringes of forest or growing along riverbanks take every advantage of the precious, unblocked, energy-producing sunshine. As we walked, our guide was searching the green barrier on our right for a suitable place where we could enter.
In the motionless water-heavy air, the thunderous blast of sound that erupted from the trees resounded as loudly as Gabriel’s horn announcing the apocalypse—except that this herald came equipped with her own built-in trumpet. I thought instantly of the bent side-view mirror and the hole in the tough glass of the Land Cruiser’s windshield. Our guide’s reaction was instantaneous.
“RUN!” he yelled at the top of his lungs as he turned to his left and burst into a mad sprint perpendicular to the trees.
I started to comply, only to have my leg pause literally halfway off the ground as I gaped at him in confusion. My sister stood frozen, her