You can never go back - isn't that what they say? I sit, still numb with pain and shock, staring at that mask. That mask, for so long the icon of love and adventure in Africa, now the author of lives destroyed.Ìý Its elongated ebony face, once handsome, now seems cruel. The curved lines from flared nostrils to the corners of the almost toothless mouth threaten a horror unimagined over the preceding thirty years. Six months ago we had finally been able to realise Rachel’s dream, a dream I shared, to return to Africa, to the colour, the heat and the dust; to the animals, forests and mountains, to old haunts and old friends. I had stared at the mask then, as I sat at the dining room table. For the first time in many years I had given it more than a passing glance, summoning up treasured memories. Into my mind unbidden had come that fateful warning. I had heard the words, though it didn't speak, I had seen them, lavishly decorated with tropical foliage, trundle across some inner screen. Do Not Go Back, Do Not Go Back, Do Not Go Back. Three months later, we stood together at sunrise on the bank of the Meru River. It was still cool but we wore only shirt and shorts. Sun hats were left in the truck. Our askari, relaxed, friendly and confident, exuded easy authority and competence. What changes thirty years had brought. We stared down into the swirling brown water ten feet below. The red earth of the bank, eroded by the strong current, was a warren of water rat holes. With a gesture the askari silenced us and pointed up stream. A family of hippos, returning from a night’s grazing, was plunging awkwardly into the water. Soon only the pink linings of their ears and nostrils showed above the surface. The askari, rifle poised, led us along the bank. Wisps of grass and broken branches swirled in the muddy current. 'Crocodiles?' I asked. ‘Too early; they bask in the sun to warm up before sliding back into the water.’
We spent almost an hour with binoculars and camera, concealed in various hides known to the askari, before retracing our steps as the heat of the day began to build. The askari, alert as ever, cocked his rifle and led the way with me behind him, and Rachel just behind me, or so I thought. Missing the swish of her boots through the scrub, I turned to see her ten yards back, on one knee, bent over her boot. A cleared track or dried watercourse ran down to the river:Ìýshe could attend to her bootlace without fear of snakes. To my horror a large crocodile, fifteen or sixteen feet long, rose out of the scrub.Ìý My shout was still locked in my throat as it launched itself towards the river. Its great jaws scooped Rachel up by her raised leg and her primal scream was cut short as they hit the water. The askari raced to the water's edge with me close behind. Blood was staining the muddy water in an ever-widening circle as the crocodile sought purchase to twist the leg off. Rachel appeared unconscious. There was no struggle. As the bodies swung across the river the askari fired three shots into the crocodile. Its tail lashing slowed and ceased.Ìý We raced along the bank, careless of danger, to reach a bend where the river had created a shallow red beach. The askari waded in and grabbed the crocodile's tail, confirming its death. Together we struggled to haul the bodies round sufficiently to prize open the jaws and release Rachel. Her leg was destroyed; thigh shredded and crushed; leg hanging off from the knee. We rolled her over to release the water from her lungs. Muddy sludge gushed in spasms from her mouth as she lay on her side.Ìý I moved round behind her to ease her forward. There was a hole in her back. A neat round bullet hole, bloodless and clean, went through the shirt below the bra strap, into the small of her back. As I sit now staring up at the mask, the scene replays through my mind in slow motion, as if on a loop. I feel cold and empty and guilty. Should I have told her? Would it have made a difference? It will make no difference now. The icon of love and adventure has become the icon of misadventure and loss. |
