bout de papier, Vol. 5, No. 1 (1987) — Spring 1987 // Printemps 1987, p. 8
Some things are harder to explain than others. Like the time I got the four flat tires.
It was a sunny, ordinary Saturday during a safari in Samburu. Now, a safari would seem exciting if one lived in, say, Cleveland or Sarnia, but they are quite routine in East Africa.
Usually.
After the thousandth ostrich and the ten thousandth zebra, even the short term visitors to Kenya may opt for the swimming pool and a cold beer. In this case, the men and the boys opted for the beer while the women set out along the sandy trails once again.
The women in this case were myself, a friend visiting from Hong Kong and her two young daughters. Rejecting the hard-to-drive Land Rover we piled into my little yellow Volkswagen and, map in hand and armed only with cameras, began our adventure.
The rains had been abundant that year. The elephant grass was taller than a man; the baobabs and the desert rose were in fleeting flower; the wildlife was content and unafraid.
Bored with the main track, we switched to a side trail, well worn ruts straddling a grassy strip but easily driveable.
Abruptly, several trails converged and lead out over the dry, crusty bed of a seasonal gully. In a rainstorm, this gully could fill with water in mere minutes, washing away anything in its path, but that day it looked benign. We inched the front tires onto the sand and then, in a rush of caution, decided to take a test foray on foot to see how solid it really was.
Just as well; within feet we were breaking through with every step.
Smug with our knowledge of jungle craft, and blissfully ignorant of the predatory potential in the surrounding grass and overhanging trees, we shunted around to take another route back to the lodge.
As we sat in a lay-by consulting our map, a low-slung red sports car driven by two fashionably outfitted men roared past. With a flourish, they backed up, asked directions about the road ahead and, totally ignoring our warning about the river bed, whipped off in a shower of dust along the trail to the gully.
“Maybe we should check, just to make sure they got across okay?”
We looked at each other. It was starting to get late but in this part of the park it was unlikely other cars would be passing
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Sure enough. There they were, up to their hubs in sand and digging deeper.
“Need any help?” we called out. “Nein, nein” “, came the answer.
We watched until the axle sank into the sugarlike stuff. Then, taking the floormats out of our car, we proceeded to whip them efficiently into place in front of their rear wheels and said, “Try it now”
With a throaty, low gear growl and an acceleration that nearly flung the mats back to our car, they departed without a backward glance or an arm upflung in gratitude.
“I wonder where they’re going?” “Sure in a hurry.”
“I’m sure they appreciated our help, though.”
Well, all this had made us late and, having no desire to be caught by the implacable African nightfall, we wasted no time locating the nearest main track. In high spirits and full of satisfaction at having had a splendid afternoon, I pulled smartly out of the side trail, accelerated onto the main track and stood on the brakes.
We had crashed, uninvited, into a late afternoon gathering of the local elephant clans. They had been standing quietly along the edges of the trail, hidden by the elephant grass. Ketreat was in order — but impossible — a large cow had stepped into the road
Forward then. Never had the gears changed their minds so fast; however, “faster than a speeding bullet” would not have been fast enough. A yearling calf had slid down the little embankment and into the road ahead of us. Frightened by his precipitate separation from his mother, he was squealing and thrashing about, trying to climb back to her side.
If our unexpected arrival hadn’t upset them, this had. Swaying and trumpeting, they expressed their desire for us to be gone. Believe me, our wishes coincided.
Just as things were getting really dicey, the little fellow had a momentary success and we shot out of there without discussing it first. Let me tell you, elephants look big from inside a Volkswagen.
Anyway, that’s how I got the flat tires. The nearest exit had been under a group of thorn trees. These trees are not misnamed. These are the same three inch thorns some tribes use to close gaping wounds.
The men never understood how we could drive twenty kilometres on four flats and not notice.
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 5, No. 1 (1987) — Spring 1987 // Printemps 1987, p. 8. Read the rest of this issue →
