The Trunk

        The longest leg of the trip was past, my journey across Southern Africa from Swakopmund to Durban would soon be over. Refreshed by an overnight stay at an off highway motel I was more than eager to leave behind the drought wasted highveld and plunge into the forested areas of Natal. Speeding along, dreaming of the surf of the Indian Ocean I became conscious of a dull thumping from the rear of the car. My first thought was a flat tire, but as I pulled off the highway to have a look another thump told me it came from the back of the car, from the trunk. For a short while I sat at the side of the road considering possibilities, finally curiosity got the better of me and I hopped out of the car with a jaunty but not too jaunty 'what-the-hell', after all this is Africa - and went to check it out;
       My controlled bravado turned to annoyance when the key to the trunk refused to turn. As I struggled to open it, the wind laden dust, along with the sweat pouring down my forehead invading my eyes, and stinging like the devil, did nothing to alleviate my building anger. Fuming at the building annoyances that were taking the shine off my day I gave the key an extra hard twist forcing the lid to fly open, thereby exposing - far too suddenly - two glittering eyes spearing me with their their icy stare, atop a swaying hooded head

       Standing tall, its forked tongue flicking in and out as though tasting my nearness, its coiled tail supporting the reared body, hooded head puffed and swollen, a black Rinkhals, the spitting cobra, hissed its sibilant song less than two feet from my face. It must have crept into the car the previous evening in an attempt to escape the cold African night, and now was preparing to either shoot its venom into my eyes or sink its fangs deep in my neck. I was truly frozen, every muscle in paralysis while my mind was going haywire trying to figure a way of escape. I knew I mustn't move, it could move faster. Even blinking could motivate it to strike. All I could think of was that either my brain would fry before this stand off was over, or the vampire bite of this stowaway cobra would be the last kiss of my life.
       Out of nowhere, like an impossible wish come true, a blurred brown bullet catapulted across the open trunk of the car, belted into the Rinkhals and launched my would be executioner into the dust behind the car. Cat fierce, its pointed snarling face only inches from the cobra's flicking tongue, a mongoose dared the snake to join him in a fatal game. Sweeping in and out, leaping back and forth across its writhing body, teasing the thrashing reptile without mercy, the small weasel like creature, eyes bright with cunning, provoked the desperate snake again and again into striking wildly in every direction, while he deftly out maneuvered every miscalculated Ringhals, exhausted in its attempt to sink its poisoned scimitars into his coarse haired nemesis, aware of the battle lost, attempted to slink away. The mongoose, ready now to finish his opponent, sank his teeth into the back of the deflated head. In a last futile attempt to dislodge his tormentor the cobra whipped its tail weakly across the dry roadside soil achieving nothing more than yellow ochered eddies, which rose and fanned around the victor and his spoil; as the golden cloud settled the mongoose gave the rinkhals a final victorious shake, then hunkered down to feast on the head and savory venom glands, apparently immune to the poison they contained.

       Shaking, my heart racing, I slumped onto the rear bumper, sweat pouring, a combination of heat and fear. As my scrambled brain attempted to replay the last terrifying moments the naked heat of the sun suddenly cooled as a shadow moved over it, and stayed. Curiosity left me, I had no desire whatsoever to know what it was, I wanted only one thing and that was to get away as fast as earthly possible. I attempted to spring sideways, away from the shadow, prepared to risk my life getting into the car rather than be eaten by whatever it was when a hand grabbed my arm. I was on the edge of a scream when a deep bass voice, its hinted laughter bridled by concern, boomed out. “Hold on their man, take it easy, the way you're sweating in this heat your old sticker'll pop a gasket!”
      My mouth was going at it like a gulping fish as I sucked air into my lungs in an effort to steady my nerves. The stranger, a massive fellow of around forty, would have intimidated King Kong but for the warmth and sincere concern in his voice, which I was sure was doing its best to ease my nerves.
       “Nice job from the nifty little guy, wasn't it? Saved my life more than once I can tell you, as well as a few of the horses on the ranch.” He was a huge giant of a man, handsome, with the blond hair and blue eyes of the early Dutch settlers, the Boers.
       “H..how did he.. you...happen to be here, just as that......that.....?” I was shaking, and my voice showed it, “I mean, that's just as...as... freaky as that bloody snake hitching a ride in my car.”

       “Well, for a start we didn't just happen, we live here, up there.” He pointed to an attractive South African farmhouse with it's large shaded veranda, standing on a rise about a hundred yards away, “I was on the way to the post box at the gate, the little guy running circles around me, when your car pulled to a stop. That pricked my interest, not many people stop here, at least not on the highway. When you got out of the car the 'goose must have got a whiff of the snake because he was off like a firecracker'd been shoved up his backside before you'd even opened the boot. Glad he did, been messy if the 'hauls had got its fangs into you. Though mind you, we do have plenty of snake bite antidote on the place, but it would've been a hell of a lot of bother on a stickler of a hot day like this.” He finished in a boom of laughter.
       I stared at him, fascinated not only by his size but how it was that something that had been a life threatening experience for me was, according to his mellow analysis, just another daily happening, no great shakes, that's life, etcetera and so forth.
       He was watching me expectantly, his eyebrows raised, an amused expression playing over his large square face and a smile seeming ready to take over, the corners of his mouth already beginning an upward curl.
       Finally he said, “Only one question in the whole of you, is there? Okay! Then I'll ask you one.”
       His face suddenly took on a serious, decidedly unfriendly, look, re-tightening a knot in my stomach which had just begun to loosen.
       He half turned away, then with a sideways glance back cocked an eyebrow and came out with. “How about a beer, ice cold, sipped in the shade?” A rumbling laugh shook him and an enormous hand slapped me on the back.
       I'm sure he played that game to relax me, but it was on the edge of doing the opposite.
       “Gave ya the skriks, did I?”
       That lost me, and it showed.
       “ Sorry man, that's just me asking did I give you a fright.?”
       “A bit, yes.” I tried a weak laugh.
       “ A bit? A bit he says. Well, lad, I'm now wondering if you're not maybe a bit too serious for me.” Again the ready laughter. “But what the hell my friend, a couple'a beers'll relax ya and getcha on your way.”
       He propelled me towards the cool welcoming shade of the huge veranda, which I later found ran around the entire house, a confusion of cushioned chairs scattered down its length.
      One beer, became two beers and then an invite to a boisterous sundowner braaivleis, where about a dozen people including his wife and four sons - well on their way to becoming the size of their father - shared a mountain of delicious lamb and beef, along with vast mounds of juicy boerewors, a spicy Afrikaans sausage and  everything washed down with enough beer, brandy or whatever to stock a small liquor store.
       Being in no state to object, and it being too late to carry on my journey that night, the invitation was carried over to a bed for the night, a huge breakfast the following morning, and a warm, friendly, hand shaking, back slapping, shouting and waving send off.
       They were truly memorable, those almost twenty four hours I spent with that generous family. As I hurried to the Natal coast, and the surfing that waited for me in the waves of the Indian Ocean, recalling the adventure filled the last long leg of my journey. But as the pleasures I had enjoyed were being remembered, a niggling itch, demanding my attention was intruding, and the time came when it had to be dealt with it.

       At that Afrikaans farmhouse – it would probably not be much different at one of the English farms – everything, from the first beer, to the turned down sheets in the guest room in which I had slept, to the superb breakfast that began the day, had been prepared and served by Africans. These servants, quiet, hard working and uncomplaining appeared to be well treated. There was a certain comfortable familiarity allowed between themselves and the family they served, but there was also, close beneath the surface of their lives like a tragic liet motif, an unspoken understanding. The Line. Drawn by the white man to separate them, to divide them. Immutable, solid. A line that must never be crossed.
       The native African, the black backbone of comfortable living for the ruling class, quietly enters in and out, cooking, serving, watching. Ordered to see that tables are always laden, glasses never empty, nothing left undone, forgotten, or neglected. Nothing that might upset the white 'baas'.
       Where did they come from, these people? Where did they live or sleep? I never thought to ask or even wondered. They stirred the fires and prepared the meals of the day, were the last to close the doors on the silent house at night and the first to open them in the still of morning,when stars still shone in the paling sky. Expected to cater to every need of the family, or the many guests that often filled the house, their only purpose, it seemed, was to make easy the lives of the so called 'elite'. Displaced people of the veldt and forests of Africa, enticed from their world to become slaves in another.
       I was saddened by the ease with which I had ignored them, those silent folk who, unthanked, had helped in such a large way to make that wonderful sojourn so memorable. With a slight obeisance, as though having intruded, they would step forward and silently attend to every need of the house, and we revelers expected it as our right.
      I wondered what episode of the past day and night would haunt me longest: the swaying Ringhals; the fearless mongoose; the delicious braaivleis; the generous host presiding over all, or the silent, humble people who turned down my bed, brought me warm towels for my bath and silently effaced themselves to allow me every comfort, comforts probably none of them would ever know.

     The Indian Ocean and Durban were everything I had imagined: the green surf with it's rolling scalloped peaks; the exotic foods and superb wines; the proud Zulu rickshaw drivers, with their feathered headdresses and painted bodies, all made the final days of my stay in South Africa one of great pleasure. Yet there rode with me as I raced the waves, walked along the sands, or sipped the wines of the Cape, a sadness I could not shake. Why had I refused to see what was so plain to see? Why, when I left that Afrikaans farmhouse hadn't I understood enough? Would I not, if I had been wiser, grasped at least one black hand and held it for a moment, some kind, simple gesture, to let them know they were not invisible to me?

Story Copyright © 2009 by Gordon Wales. All Rights Reserved.