It was Aristotle who said, “Hope is a waking dream”. I’d always dreamed of seeing wildlife in Africa but I wasn’t entirely sure that I wasn’t still dreaming as we’d flown into the Selous reserve, over masses of hippos that looked like water vole latrines on the riverbanks far below us, then stopped in an open sided jeep within pouncing distance of some slightly fidgety lions.
Now we were setting out to look for crocodiles in a fibre glass boat whose bows were only about six inches above the water or, as I calculated it, seven inches above any passing crocodile’s mouths. I noted that life jackets were not included; perhaps they would just make it easier for the crocodiles to catch you. Our guide, Hussain, who was evidently the camp’s river trip expert, smiled reassuringly as if he was supervising children at a paddling pool.
Within a minute or so we had seen the first crocodile, only a youngster about two feet long and wedged between some tree roots but it was still a crocodile and crocodiles were the thing I’d most wanted to see in Africa. A few metres on, a second crocodile lay half submerged. This one was four-five feet long; we were definitely going in the right direction. Soon we had seen dozens of crocodiles, some up to 12 feet long; their Swahili name, “Mamba” making them sound even more menacing. One of them came running straight at us off the bank and slid under the boat. I can’t recall if there was an urge to leap on its back, Steve Irwin fashion, and wrestle it but if there was I managed to resist it. Still the, “photograph crocodile” reflex wouldn’t switch off and every one of them got their picture taken.
Dotted along the river were groups of hippos (invent your own collective noun; I’m going for “Yawns”). I’d heard that they were the most dangerous animal in Africa and liked nothing better than upending boats and biting tourists in half. Instead these seemed almost coy and would submerge as we passed, only to poke their heads up to gaze at us from a distance, looking like Moomins on steroids. That is until one submerged and surfaced under the boat, lifting one end several inches. I don’t know who got the biggest shock, us or the hippo; no, actually I’m pretty sure I do! Still Hussain passed it off as an accident and nothing to worry about. Later, travelling with a bit of speed, we hit another underwater object quite hard. Hussain serenely passed this off as a crocodile though I doubt that the crocodile was quite so serene about it.
We stayed out until the sun hit the horizon, pouring a fiery cocktail that doused the palms and the yawns of hippos, then skimmed back to camp at full speed racing the sunset. A huge dead palm tree stood in iconic splendour, a giant gnomon, linking river and sky and marking the way back to the jetty.
Back in the tent, which was lit a muted yellow with the single lamp, we went straight for the shelf where we had left our essentials; my “Field Guides to Everything African” and Michael’s stash of oat bars to stave off his teenage hunger pangs. But something wasn’t quite right; everything was knocked off the shelf and somebody had obviously been rifling through our stuff. We were just about to call the camp manager when I noticed one of Michael’s oat bars laid on the floor. It had a small crescent bitten out of the middle, straight through the plastic wrapper. There was another one with exactly the same modus operandi, then a third. Then it dawned on me; the cute Sun Squirrels that we’d seen opposite the veranda had taken their chance while we were out and raided our tent. I sat on the bed and let the wave of relief lap over me, then looked over at Michael who was obviously experiencing something other than relief. Instead he was stomping around muttering all manner of curses against squirrels; my great amusement at how someone could get so upset about oat bars only seeming to make him worse. Eventually he calmed down but even weeks after we were home, every so often he’d complain about the loss of his oat bars and curse squirrels.
I’ll always dream of Africa; of standing on the veranda as the sun raises a flaming toast to the day just ended; of crocodiles that got bigger and bigger and of hippos that harrumphed past the tent all night. But if I want to know that it wasn’t a dream, I think of squirrels.
Raven on the Wing 