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M
Y S E R E N G E T I
crapshoot
WHAT
DO YOU DO WHEN YOU HAVE TO GO
IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT --
AND
LIONS HAVE TAKEN OVER THE OUTHOUSE?
It is 11:30 at night.
I'm lying in a two-man tent in the middle of Serengeti National Park in Tanzania,
desperately trying to expunge from my memory banks a certain story that
my driver Masai narrated to me during dinner.
It all
starts off with a seemingly innocent question, "Masai, what types of
snakes are common in this part of Tanzania?"
A list is
summarily rattled off: the black mamba, arguably the world's deadliest
snake, famous for its aggressive and territorial instincts, as well as
its lethal neurotoxin capable of felling 100 humans with one bite; the
green mamba, a somewhat shyer relative; the forest cobra, which, like
the mamba, is capable of delivering a fatal neurotoxin that shuts down
your respiratory system in no time; the black-necked spitting cobra,
expert at projecting a stream of highly toxic venom into your eyes at a
distance of 15 feet, which can result in permanent blindness; and the
African python, which seems warm and cuddly in comparison.
A
perceptible unease descends upon our group, which consists of an
Australian couple, an Austrian entrepreneur and a Canadian woman who
spends her summers counting migratory salmon in Canadian rivers as they
head upstream to spawn. With a tragic lack of foresight I ask Masai if,
during his seven years of driving on safari, his group has ever had a
close encounter with a snake. Yes, replies Masai, with unsettling
flippancy. As a matter of fact, a member of his safari not so long ago
woke up one morning, rolled up his sleeping bag, and found a green
mamba curled up under it. How it got there and why it hadn't lashed out
in indignation after being crushed by a 200-pound body both remained
unsolvable mysteries.
Whether it's
an onset of acute nervousness brought about by the story or just
fatigue from wandering about the Serengeti all day, our group disperses
rapidly into their respective tents. Mumbling something about getting
some sleep before our 6 a.m. game drive,
I scurry off toward my tent, zip it open and do a thorough inspection
for all possible snakes from the outside. I then dive in, roll like a
Marine in combat and zip the tent up, all in a blurlike motion
reminiscent of Christopher Reeve changing into his spandex Superman
outfit in a phone booth.
As I slip
into my sleeping bag, I briefly recap the day's events. After visiting Lake Manyara National Park, famous for
its tree-climbing lions, we skirt the spectacular rim of Ngorongoro
crater and descend into the Serengeti. The name Serengeti is derived
from the Masai word "siringet," meaning endless plain. And endless
plain it is, often flat as far as the eye can see with an occasional
acacia tree or a kopje (an ancient granite rock outcrop)
dotting the surface. Serengeti National Park alone is 14,763 square
kilometers, roughly the size of Connecticut, and
supports the greatest concentration of animals left in the world today.
The plains were formed 3 million to 4 million years ago when ash blown
from the volcanoes in the Ngorongoro highlands covered the landscape
and formed a mineral-rich soil surface. But the park is not all
grassland; in fact, as much as two-thirds of the park in the north and
west constitute bush or woodlands.
After just a
few days in this part of East Africa, I am
convinced that Tanzania is Eden. The
herbivores -- wildebeest, zebra, gazelle -- following the short rains
that start in November, have descended from the northern areas of the
park to the flat southern plains, where they graze on the lush, green
grass that blankets the ground. Almost immediately we get a flavor for
what the Serengeti migration -- the most awe-inspiring spectacle in the
animal kingdom -- must look like. As we drive toward Naabi Hill, the
entrance to the park, every square millimeter in our field of vision is
dotted with animals. Burchelli's zebras (the ones with the thicker
stripes) run pell-mell alongside our Land Rover, and then overtake us
in explosive bursts not unlike crazed New York cabbies
during rush hour. We curse and brake sharply. About five feet off the
side of the road, the two species of gazelle (Thomson's and Grant's)
gambol about, playfully butting heads with each other. Occasionally a
herd of giraffe gracefully glides across the road, as if in slow
motion, their heads quizzically turned toward us.
The most
spectacular sight, however, is reserved for the thousands of
wildebeests who blanket the plains. At one spot we come upon a herd
that contains some 5,000 skittish animals racing furiously back and
forth, kicking up great clouds of dust. Like schools of fish, they
change direction in perfect unison every 10 seconds or so, and at one
point thunder directly toward the car. We hold our breaths with nervous
anticipation. By now the herd is a mere 30 feet away from us and
approaching rapidly. Almost in weary resignation, my mind conjures up
images of vultures nibbling on my shredded remains after 10,000 hooves
have dispensed with me. Before I begin to actually wet my shorts, the
herd veers to the left and calm prevails.
It appears
to be birthing season for the wildebeests and we see hundreds of calves
among the herds, some being forcefully nudged by their mothers to stand
up minutes after being born, others staggering about on rubbery legs.
We decide to shut off the Land Rover's engine so that we can just sit
and absorb the cacophony of sounds that surrounds us: a mixture of
grunts, bleats, snorts, chirps, brays and yelps. Despite these noises,
the effect is wonderfully soothing. Fred, the Austrian in our
entourage, holds up his camcorder in an effort to capture it all. He
cups a hand to his ear and sighing contentedly, says: "This is Africa."
A subsequent
game drive is especially fortuitous as we stumble upon a female cheetah
resting by the side of the road with her two cubs. The cubs' coats,
having shed their baby fluff, are almost as glossy as their mother's.
The entire family takes turns sunning themselves in the open and then
seeking refuge in a large bush spotted with lavender. Then off to a
small pond where about 20 hippos lie submerged, snorting and grunting
to each other as they keep a wary eye on a crocodile basking on a rock
nearby. Suddenly two adult males explode into action, heaving their
massive bodies at each other like a pair of sumo wrestlers, their jaws
agape as they try to slash their opponent with fearsome, tusklike
incisors. On the way back we pass ubiquitous herds of impala racing
alongside the road, intermittently leaping some 15 feet into the air.
At this point, all thoughts of snakes have been shed, and mentally
recapping the day's events lulls me into a comfortable sleep.
I jerk
awake, sweating profusely, desperate to go to the bathroom. I have been
suffering from a bout of the inescapable African malady -- diarrhea --
for the past two days and have convinced myself sometime around dinner
that my iron constitution has heroically sallied forth and vanquished
it. Evidently not. My watch tells me it's 1:30. The
pressure builds and the thought of going to the bathroom -- an
ostentatious word for two rickety sheds built around holes in the
ground about 50 feet away -- terrifies me. But I have no option. It's
either that or do it in my pants. And then I become conscious of
curious, loud sounds that seem to be originating from not more than
half a mile away.
Lions
roaring. Actually, the sound is more of a grunt and a bellow mixed
together with a deep-throated moan. The sounds become even louder,
which means that they are either moving closer to camp or that the wind
has shifted in our direction, making their roars more audible. The
pressure on my bowels is now agonizing and I realize that I have to act
fast. My choices are clear: Relieve myself outside amid roaring lions,
or remain a coward and spend the rest of the night in what is sure to
become extremely noxious quarters. I am convinced that either option
will spell disaster for me.
Finally, I
gather up some courage, zip my tent open and poke my head out. I scan
the area in front of me but it's pitch dark and the lanterns have long
since been extinguished. I hobble toward Masai's tent, praying that
this sudden movement will not cause me any unfortunate accidents.
"Masai!" I
yell, "I need a torch."
"What for?"
he asks, in a tone that suggests that this is no time for a Sunday
jaunt in Central Park.
"Bathroom,"
I reply.
"You have
heard the lions, haven't you?" he asks, with a tinge of incredulity at
the idea that I would consider walking in this inky blackness to an
even darker shed 50 feet away with lions roaring nearby -- not to
mention snakes. "This is the bush, not a lodge," he remarks in a tone
he probably reserves for a very small child with an exceptionally low
I.Q. "Anything can happen." He adds that lionesses hunt at night, and
the fact that the males are roaring so close by means that there's a
good chance the females are out looking for prey in the same area. All
in all, not a good time to go for a crap. "Go somewhere close," he adds
and dismisses me by depositing the flashlight at my feet.
If I was
scared before, I am truly terrified now. I think of the number of times
I've used the word "terrified" without really appreciating the full
impact of its meaning. Now I know. In fact, mere minutes have
transformed me into a connoisseur of terror. And the bit about the
lions hunting, "Was that really necessary?" I think to myself. As I
scout around for a good location to squat, I curse Masai fervently for
his sharing of what is undoubtedly a rich knowledge of lion behavior at
a most inappropriate moment.
I pick a
spot several feet away from our Land Rover and as I squat, the
ridiculously helpless nature of my predicament hits me: I am crouched
in the middle of the Serengeti with my pants down to my ankles,
inviting every sort of predator for a quick meal as I wave my bare
buttocks tantalizingly in their faces. Fortunately, this grim
realization enhances my bowel movement and the whole affair, while
seeming like hours, takes a couple of minutes. While I am hunkered
down, I look at the tall Serengeti grass that frames our camp waving to
and fro in the wind and immediately chastise myself for spending hours
devouring all those wildlife films on the Discovery channel at home.
Films with precisely this sort of tall savanna grass waving in the
breeze, as a well-camouflaged lioness sits in a frozen crouch, her body
taut as a steel cable, waiting to spring upon an unsuspecting gazelle.
Or someone taking a midnight crap.
Suddenly, I
see the grass parting slightly, and I hear something moving not more
than 10 feet away. My eyes bulge in terror. My mouth goes dry. After
the usual slew of grizzly images that my brain seems intent on
manufacturing (example: black-maned lion gripping me by the thorax and
shaking me like a rag-doll as I emit horrible, gurgling noises), I try
to calm down by convincing myself that it's probably a mongoose or a
rock hyrax (a rodentlike animal about the size of a rabbit that,
strangely enough, happens to be the closest living land relative to the
elephant). Not especially keen to hang around and check out my
hypothesis, I hastily wipe, yank my pants up and gallop toward my
tent.
Once again,
I'm a Navy SEAL in the thick of combat: unzip, dive, roll and zip. This
time around I'm twice as fast. Once I'm safely ensconced in my sleeping
bag, my pounding heart slows down. The saliva starts flowing. A couple
of minutes pass and I feel a bit courageous again. "That wasn't so
bad," I say to myself. As I'm mentally awarding myself a purple heart
for bravery, a hideous shrieking ensues. This time the sounds are not
more than 30 feet away from our tents.
I groan in
despair as I recognize the sound. A pack of hyena. The sound is
deafening and unbelievably bone-chilling.
I begin to
panic. Do hyenas rip into tents and attack humans? Or are they
generally wary of us? I rack my brains but can't seem to come up with
an answer. The sounds get closer. The pack cannot be more than 15 feet
away. By this time, the wind has picked up and the entire tent is
fluttering and shaking in spurts. Every time it does so, I recoil,
expecting fangs to rip through the flimsy tent. Sometimes I can't seem
to differentiate between the animal sounds outside and the effect of
the wind against my tent. At one point I hear a rustling and sniffing a
scant two feet from my face. I have this uncontrollable urge to open
the tent a crack to try to see what's going on outside, but sheer fear
prevents me from doing so. Every time I inch toward the tent zipper, I
imagine the snarling, saliva-coated muzzle of a hyena in front of my
face, and my hand drops to my side with alacrity.
As soon as I
convince myself that the pack has wandered off and that it's just these
nuisance gusts that are exacerbating my heightened anxiety, the wind
subsides and I can hear the pack screaming louder than ever. For two
hours I lie in my tent recoiling and cowering in alternate spurts like
some committed mental patient in a padded cell. Finally, the dual
effort of concentrating on these frightful sounds and tensing up for a
bloody attack takes its toll. The shrieks cease and I drift off into a
fitful sleep.
I wake up at
dawn, the mild rays of the sun painting the inside of my tent red.
Almost immediately, I feel strangely euphoric. I have slept a night in
the Serengeti surrounded by roaring lions and shrieking hyenas. I have
wandered out of my tent in the dead of night and unwittingly relieved
myself right under the noses of a pack of animals reputed to have the
strongest jaws in the business. I have not incurred the wrath of any
venomous snakes by stepping on them. Survival, I realize, is a giddy
sensation. I triumphantly step out of my tent and stride purposefully
toward Fred's.
"Did you
hear the hyenas last night?" I ask, certain that this amiable Austrian
must have also spent the night quaking in abject terror for a couple of
hours.
No such
luck. Fred reports that he slept soundly throughout the night thanks to
several Safari lagers (Tanzanian beer) that he downed during dinner. I
give him a look of dismay and turn away. I ask Natalie, the Canadian,
the same question and she laughs at me. Perhaps it was Fred snoring,
she suggests cheekily.
As I hurl
unpleasant, almost hateful thoughts at her, doubts begin to creep into
my head. I am embarrassed to think about the helpless state of panic I
was in not so many hours ago. Am I that much of a sniveling baby? Did I
conjure up the whole thing replete with visions of imminent death? Did
I really hear what I thought I heard, or have I become a quivering,
delusional wreck after just one night in the bush?
I am
beginning to feel extremely sheepish. Best to forget the whole affair,
I reason to myself, lest I start cultivating a reputation for being a
paranoid schizophrenic. I stroll toward last night's campfire, which is
about 15 feet from our tents. The ground around the campfire is covered
with a combination of ash and fine sand. Right next to the campfire are
four massive hyena paw prints. I run to my tent and check its outside
perimeters. I think I can detect faint prints, but the ground is hard
and covered with grass, so I can't be sure. I walk to Natalie's tent
about 10 feet away. All around her tent, in the soft sand, are a
multitude of large paw prints.
Vindicated!
Sleeping in
a tent in the middle of the Serengeti can be a petrifying or an
invigorating experience -- or perhaps, as in my case, a bit of both.
Looking back, I am tempted to reel off the usual "man-against-nature"
clichés: how the night was a poignant reminder of how completely
defenseless we humans really are; how almost anything out there can
horribly maim or kill you in seconds, from a pint-sized baboon to the
African buffalo, dubbed the "most dangerous animal in Africa"; how
nature is so unpredictable and ultimately unconquerable. But I won't. I
will mention, however, that given the chance, most animals will go out
of their way to avoid human contact. And after my first night in the
Serengeti, I give fervent thanks for that
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