Thursday, March 28, 2013

Bubbles over the Plane

             

                                                

                                                           
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                                  Bubbles Over the Planes    


                                           
What was that noise? The sound came again. Something rattled on the table right outside the safari tent. Suddenly the Serengeti seemed very wild and our canvas walls very flimsy. We certainly knew there were wild creatures all about our transient camp inside Serengeti Park in Tanzania, Africa. Giraffes browsed thorn trees across the dirt road during dinner. Elephant dung provided mute evidence that the giant creatures had passed in front of our tent within two days. As Sultan, our guide, escorted us safely to our lodging tents after dinner, he’d shown his powerful flashlight into the thicket off the path and a hundred glowing white Christmas bulbs flashed in the darkness. “Impala eyes.” Sultan said.

A guide and a spear-toting guard escorted us the sixty yards to our tent every night after dinner, and always peeked inside the shelter to be sure the heavy alarm whistle hung on it’s peg by the door. “You must not leave the tents alone. It is very dangerous after dark. If you need something, blow your alarm whistle.” Sultan admonished, his normally cheerful brown face very serious in the tent’s lantern light.











I knew there were wild animals Out There, but this sound was almost In Here, and it scared me. Maybe we should have opted for a tent closer to the dinner tent where the guards sat between patrols.

I groped for my flash light under the cot. The absolute blackness was unnerving. What if the sound had been inside the tent? Were those stealthy foot steps actually padding next to my bed in the tiny enclosure?

“Charlie,” I whispered.

“Snarff, orr.” He was deeply asleep.

I found the light, switched it around the tent. No crouching wild beasts, not even a mouse. Outside the tent a scrambling sound, accompanied by a huff, attested to a startled retreat.

I was exhausted by the long day, and despite my fear my eye lids grew heavy. Leaving the dim light wasting
my scarce batteries as a protective talisman next to my pillow, I slept.


I was awakened by the coughing roar of the king of
beasts. Somewhere not too far, lions were abroad. Their roars were answered by the wailing yelp of hyenas. 

My  flashlight had gone out, but dawn was breaking and light framed the zipped canvas window shutters and 
door. I slept again.

In the full morning light we rose to find large muddy prints on the canvas floor of the tent porch, an overturned glass, and a missing toothbrush, tube of toothpaste and soap. “Hyenas,” said Sultan. “They will eat anything, even soap.”

“Why don’t they come into the tents?” I asked.

“They are a very cautious animal and fear humans. The animals do not come in the tents.”

“I am a very cautious human, and fear the animals.”

“Don’t leave edibles outside. You know that toothpaste and soap should have been in the lock box in the dinner area.” Sultan said, shaking his finger. And so we learned. 





But my dreams are haunted by a large hyena loping across the plane, very bright white teeth bared in a hyena grin, trailing iridescent bubbles floating from under his tail.




































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