May We Be Forgiven Part 71

In the late afternoon, we arrive at camp. "Just in time for tea," Dirk says. We are shown to our tent, which is kind of Lawrence of Arabia, over the top. It is less like a "room" and more like a tented house-with a large wraparound porch, a living area with Oriental rugs, couches, comfortable chairs, old trunks as footstools, lamps, a campaign desk in case letters need to be written, a bathroom with an enormous old claw-footed tub that opens right out into the bush. There are bowls of Gummi snakes and small stuffed animals for the children. Two black servants bring in tea, lemonade, and biscuits-cookies filled with lemon creme-and peanut-b.u.t.ter-and-jelly sandwiches. I can't decide if this is the way things are always done or if Sofia asked for some kind of special treatment.

We rest for an hour, and then one of the guides comes in and talks with us about the safari drive we'll go on at dusk. The rules are reviewed-cameras are welcome, no loud talking, never any yelling since it could cause an animal to stampede, no getting out of the cars, no trying to feed or otherwise attract the animals closer, hands in the vehicles at all times.

I drink the tea and worry that while watching lions have their dinner I will once again have to relieve myself. I think of canceling, but the idea of sending the kids off into the twilight with Pieter and Dirk just isn't going to work.

We rest; I give the kids the safari packs Sofia made for them, cameras, hats each with a giant metal b.u.t.ton, "NATE'S BIG BM."

Dirk brings me a special drink. "This will help you feel better," he says.

"What is it?"

"Gatorade," he says. "We keep it on hand for pregnant ladies."

I'm not sure if he's teasing or not, but I do feel better after drinking it.

In the car with us for our evening drive is an older couple from the Netherlands. "I've wanted to do this my whole life," the husband says. The wife, who speaks no English, nods along. "My grandfather came here years ago and brought home an elephant's skin."

"He killed an elephant?" Ricardo asks.

The man nods proudly. The rest of us say nothing.

"As you know, this is a photographic safari," Pieter says. "The only thing that will be shot is a camera."

The fellow from Amsterdam nods grimly, as though he's really wis.h.i.+ng he signed up for more.

"We know that a pride of lions lives in this area; there are multiple females, a couple of males, and some cubs who are a few months old." The car slows down. Pieter whispers, "What we see here, across the road, are fresh paw prints from the pride: they're close by."

Suddenly one of the black guys points off to the side, and we see a male lion emerge from the bushes, followed by a female and a few younger cubs. The male lion appears to be stalking something; his tail twitches.

"I know this lion," Pieter says.

The lions come closer and we all begin taking pictures of the lioness and her cubs, and then another female lion approaches and we track them to an area where several lions are chewing on what is, thank G.o.d, an unrecognizable carca.s.s.

"What are they eating?" the fellow from Amsterdam asks.

"Steenbok," Pieter says.

"Are the animals fenced in?" I ask. "Is there any chance of running into a wild lion along the road?"

"Very little," Pieter says. "Most of our big animals are in game parks and reserves. You might see monkey, baboon, or some antelope out and about, but highly unlikely that you'd spot elephant, lion, rhino, or buffalo...."

"And do people still hunt those animals?"

"They do," Pieter says.

"In a fenced park, that seems kind of pathetic," Nate says.

And no one says any more, until Ricardo says, "So this is kind of like an indoor/outdoor zoo?"

"Sort of," Ashley says.

We spot a male lion having an argument with another male, and that's good for about a hundred pictures, and then we make our way back to the camp as the sun is setting. The sky is enormously big, and before we are back, the stars are all out and we're naming and, as a game, renaming constellations.

Our tent has been remade for the evening. Each of the three giant sofas surrounding the master king-sized bed has been turned into a bed, crisp white sheets, plumped pillows all draped with mosquito netting-at once opulent and rustic. We are given the choice of dining with the other guests or on our own terrace.

We choose the terrace. Each tent has its own "butler." Ours is Bongani, a lithe young man with rich black skin who radiates goodness. When the children ask him to sit at the table and share their macaroni and cheese, he shakes his head no. "I have already eaten," he says, "but it is good to see you enjoy." Bongani brings me more Gatorade, some toast, and a pot of hot water in which to make my tea. Opening the kit Londisizwe gave me, I see there are b.a.l.l.s of tea, each one labeled with the time of day and day of week they are to be used. Tonight's ball is a dark purply black.

"Would you like cream and sugar?" Bongani asks me.

"Some honey if you have it," I say.

"At safari camp we have it all," he says. And it is uncomfortably true.

After dinner, I drink the tea, which is smooth and calming, and take a bath while the children watch movies-I overhear them talking. Ashley tells the boys that it's very hard to be a girl in South Africa-girls get no respect. The boys tell her they haven't noticed; I'm impressed that she did. "It's depressing," she tells them. "The women do all the work of cooking and cleaning but have no authority, no one cares about them."

"I'm sure people care about them," I say as I'm coming out of the bathroom. "But it may be that the fight for racial equality overtook the fight for women's equality."

"Basically," she says, flouncing off to her bed, "girls don't rank."

Bongani offers to make the children a bonfire at which they can roast marshmallows. Their faces light up.

Oiled with insect repellent, they go outside to make s'mores; from the tent I can see the firelight flickering across their faces.

I stay inside. I'm exhausted but feeling a bit better, almost high in a strange way. I count nine tea b.a.l.l.s left.

Ricardo falls asleep by the fire; Bongani carries him inside. "Do you want me to change him into sleeping clothes?" Bongani asks.

"I've got it, but thank you," I say.

As Ashley and Nate get ready for bed, Bongani asks the children if they would like to hear a story.

"Yes," they say.

And we are lulled to sleep listening to the melodic rise and fall of Bongani's voice as he tells tales of heroic elephants and lions of long ago.

About an hour later, Ricardo wakes up and comes to the side of my bed. "I'm scared," he says, climbing into the big bed. A little while later, Ashley says, "I can't sleep," and crawls in next to Ricardo. At 2 a.m., Nate wordlessly joins us. We are like a pack of dogs, curled around each other, softly snoring, jockeying for pillows and blankets. It's the best night's sleep I've had all year.

At dawn, Bongani is already preparing breakfast. He notices that I am awake and brings me tea. When the children wake I have more tea and some plain toast and watch the children consume an enormous breakfast. While we are eating, I ask Bongani about his family. He says they are all well and that he has lived here his whole life.

We are told to pack bathing suits and a change of clothes, and take off on an early ride in pursuit of elephants. This time the couple from the Netherlands is in another car, and we are on our own. A child in one of the other cars has a temper tantrum and throws his stuffed animal overboard; the cars all come to a halt. Dirk approaches the little boy; I'm worried he's going to give him a talking to about breaking the rules. Instead, he gives the boy a lollipop to quiet him while Josia hops out to pick the teddy out of the brush, and we continue on.

At the next stop, while the others are shooting photos, I mention to Dirk how magical I find Bongani's presence. Dirk tells me that Bongani's father was murdered and that his mother became a prost.i.tute in order to survive and later died of AIDS.

We have a feast of a picnic lunch at a picture-perfect spot under an enormous tree, which just happens to have several swings-strung from enormously long ropes that allow the children to sail through the air. The air smells deliciously like earth and gra.s.s. "Picnic" means c.o.c.ktails and large comfortable chairs, as well as beautiful tables set with real dishes and food that materializes out of endless enormous wicker hampers. On the way back to the camp, we stop at a river where dressing "tents" have been set up and we're told we can swim, alligator-free, while a "lifeguard" with a gun stands watch. The children go in. I abstain, fearing parasites or anything that might aggravate my digestive tract.

That night, after dinner, there is no pretense about who is sleeping where; we all put on our pajamas, hop into the big bed, and sip warm cocoa as Bongani talks us to sleep.

What do you want? Tuttle asked me, what seems like months ago.

I want this, whatever this is, never to end.

The next morning, while the children are visiting a nearby crocodile farm, I'm busy stuffing everything we arrived with and everything we acc.u.mulated along the way back into our suitcases. Abruptly, I decide not to bring most of our clothing home, keeping only what I use to wrap fragile items.

The suitcases are laden with tourist memorabilia-hats, T-s.h.i.+rts that seemed so urgent and of the moment earlier in the week but which likely will never be worn again.

I put aside a giant pile of clothing, and when Bongani returns I ask him if he will keep it.

"Yes," Bongani says, taking the job very seriously. "I will hold them until you return."

"I want you to use the clothing," I say, "or give it to someone who will. I do not expect it back."

"Thank you," he says. "I will wear them well."

As we are leaving, I give him money and he gives some of it back to me. "It is no good for me to have too much money. If someone thinks I am rich, they will try and steal from me. I can only take so much. I enjoyed being with you and your family."

I think of bringing him to the United States-he could go to school and study. I write my name, address, phone number, and e-mail on a piece of paper and give it to him. "Do not hesitate to contact me," I say.

We hug goodbye.

"So long, it was good to know you," he says.

On the road to Durban, we make two stops for shopping. Ashley buys a painting for her room and some earrings. Determined to bring the right thing home for Madeline and Cy, she has been shopping for them, much like she shopped for the beloved Miss Renee. She buys something, and then finds something else and buys that too. Ashley and Ricardo zero in on a variety store and beg the driver to stop. Sensing a serious shopper, the owner encourages Ashley to take her time, which she does, settling on what she thinks is the most perfect gift-dark-black baby dolls, rather large, male and female, anatomically correct. I tell her it's fine if she wants to get one for herself but I don't think it's the right gift for Amanda's parents.

"You're wrong," she says, point-blank. I then have to decide between a.s.serting that I am not only the adult in charge but am footing the bill, or just sucking it up and letting her have her way. "All right," I say. "But this is it, this is the last perfect gift."

"I actually know what I'm doing," she says. "I saw it on one of my favorite shows, and then I looked it up for real life-fact checking, we call it at school. There was a study done in which demented old people were given dolls to care for and it made them much happier." She takes the dolls to the cash register. "It made them feel closer and needed." At the last minute, as the shop owner is about to swipe my credit card, Ashley adds a blanket for each one. I say nothing and sign the charge. Ashley immediately takes the dolls out of the packaging, swaddles them, and calls them her twins.

Ricardo says he wants an all-too-real-looking toy gun-the kind that the police see and accidentally shoot you for.

"Absolutely not," I say.

"What are the twins' names?" Nate asks when we are out of the store and the owner is pulling the metal gate closed behind us.

"We'll have to wait and see," Ashley says.

We get back in the car, and are on the outskirts of Durban when things start to go wrong. The driver seems nervous: he's stepping on the gas, pa.s.sing cars on a road that is for the most part lightly trafficked.

"Everything okay?" I ask.

"They are on my tail," he says.

"Who is on your tail?"

"A car," he says, pulling into oncoming traffic, attempting to pa.s.s a slow truck. Another car is heading right for us, and before we are able to pa.s.s, the driver has to cut back into our lane. As we approach a red light, the driver pauses, checks the intersection, but doesn't stop.

"Hey," I say, "we've got kids in the car."

"Trust me," he says. "Sometimes it is better not to stop."

I glance out the back; the other car did not stop either. There are three men in the car. Soon they are next to us, pus.h.i.+ng us off the road. Ashley screams. Our driver keeps going, pus.h.i.+ng the pedal to the floor; great clouds of dust rise up. The white car is beside us still, urging us farther off the road.

"Maybe we should just stop," I say.

"No," the driver says. "No good can come of it."

It goes on like this for what feels like a couple of minutes-maybe it's only thirty seconds-and then there is an enormous sound like a bang, and the car jerks to the right. The driver struggles to maintain control; slowly we roll to a stop, and the dust settles around us.

"Are we in an accident?" Ricardo asks.

"Flat tire," the driver says.

The three men stop behind us, get out of their car, and approach. As soon as they're within striking distance, they start banging on the car, rocking it from side to side-it's terrifying.

"Hijacking," Nate whispers. "Just give them your money."

"My babies, my babies," Ashley suddenly screams. "My babies aren't breathing."

I throw open the car door-knocking over one of the men, who'd been leaning against it. Ricardo, Nate, and Ashley jump out, carrying the brown babies wrapped in their blankets.

Ashley is on the side of the road, wailing, "My babies, my babies are not breathing."

Nate is hunched over the babies, pressing his ear to their chests, his mouth to the plastic baby mouths. Nate shouts-"Do you know CPR?"

Ricardo and I are on our knees at the side of the road, hunched over the brown baby boy, while Nate is compressing the baby girl's chest-shouting, "Breathe. Breathe."

"He's not doing well," Ricardo says. "Does anyone have a de-frigerator?"

The driver is still in the car, paralyzed by fear.

Ashley's scream has now turned from a piercing shriek into a high-pitched wail-as though she's summoned all the pain, the grief of Jane's death. She's on the side of the road, keening, truly hysterical, and I'm not sure what to attend to first. "You killed my babies," she wails again and again.

The hijackers are thoroughly perplexed; they get back into their car and speed away. We wait until they are far gone, and then Nate and I pick up the babies and go to Ashley, who is having a hard time calming down. Nate shows her the dolls. "Look," he says. "They're all right. Here, hold them." He puts the dolls in her arms. Ashley's breathing is shallow; she's wild-eyed, like she doesn't quite know where she is. I get the paper bag that the dolls came in. "Breathe into this," I say, crumpling the opening into a mouthpiece and putting it to her lips.

"That was amazing," Ricardo says, "and really scary."

We all nod. And when Ashley has caught her breath, we go back to the car.

Our driver is still at the wheel, silent tears streaming down his face.

"Do you have a spare tire?" I ask.

He nods. We quickly change the tire and drive off-shaken.

"It's very common," Nate says. "Hijacking. Sometimes they take the car, sometimes they just want money."

"You were very lucky," the driver says. "Sometimes they want rich white people too."

"Are you okay?" I ask Ashley.