We climbed back into the vehicle again, Alex with cotton inelegantly stuffed up his nostrils.
“I really am sorry,” I said sincerely. I felt my apology had gotten lost in the mayhem, and Alex hadn’t said a word to me. Not since I’d forced my tits onto him and not even when I’d caused him to leak irresistible blood that surely wafted across the savanna to every predator within miles. Good thing the closest ones were satiated.
“It’s fine,” Alex said, finally looking at me.
“But I made you bleed.”
“You also did me a favor.” He shifted in his seat.
“I did?”
Alex leaned in close to me, and despite the dried blood and sexy nostril plugs, I leaned toward him.
“It’s hard to keep a boner when you’re bleeding.”
I turned away quickly to hide a smile, my cheeks heating up as Alex’s laughter rang out.
EIGHT
That afternoonour drive was a little different. Rather than each Jeep splitting up and heading into the wilderness in search of animals, we were all visiting one of the local villages.
Thomas explained, “This land is all part of the tribe’s remittance. And the lodge partners with the locals to share the profits and to promote the education of the people. Amukela has sent two dozen locals on scholarship to become certified rangers, and many more work in the service side of the lodge or get English and hospitality lessons. In exchange, the people want you to come and see their way of life.”
“Are you from here?” Meino asked.
“No, I am from Botswana. But I’ve been here for many years, and on my off time, I stay in the village.”
“Are cameras okay?” I asked.
Thomas nodded. “Yes, the village wants people to explore and share their culture. Photographs are fine.”
He fielded a few other questions, and then we gathered into the Jeeps.
We drove along the road rather than the dusty trails in the park, still seeing wildlife here and there; elephants rumbling through the trees or giraffe heads poking above the treetops. Thomas always pointed them out, but we didn’t stop.
We slowed as we approached a fence constructed with large, rough-hewn posts pressed tightly together. Over the wood, I could just barely make out the thatched rooftops of a few buildings. The Jeep rolled to a stop next to a rusted lorry and a few motorbikes.
Thomas shouted out as we walked through the opening in the fence, and he was greeted by loud calls back. The village was set up with different stations, and there were adults seated on the ground with blankets spread out in front of them, and Thomas led us to the first one. A tall man with peppered gray hair and a short beard stood behind it wearing a loincloth and holding a spear. All of the villagers were similarly dressed, women in fur skirts and men in loincloths. All the adults were bare-chested, and I worried my lip. I wanted to photograph the experience but also wanted to be respectful of their culture and bodies. The man stared at us, sternly, and I began to wonder if we weren’t as welcome here as Thomas made it sound.
But then the man cracked the largest smile I’d ever seen. He said something to us that I couldn’t understand but then switched to English.
“That means welcome in Xitsonga. I am Kuhlula, and this is my village. Thank you for joining us.” His English was halted and careful. “Please, sit.”
He gestured down at the dirt, and I folded my legs under me as I sat. The eight of us formed a circle around Kuhlula’s mat, which was filled with clippings of plants and flowers. Picking up a bouquet of slender stems with purple flowers, he handed them out. “This morning, I walked for you. I will show you how to survive in the savanna, just in case Thomas loses you.” His eyes twinkled.
Kuhlula guided us through all the plants in front of him, teaching us which ones held water, which ones could be used for practical purposes, like an antiseptic, and which ones were poisonous. We nibbled on plants that didn’t taste very good, but if you had to choose between eating them and starving, at least you’d know.
It could be a tough life out there.
We went from blanket to blanket, sitting and learning some aspect of the tribe’s life. Kuhlula often stood to the side and spoke for his villagers. The last blanket was full of handicrafts for sale. “Please explore our village. If you want to make a weaving or try on a piece of jewelry….” Kuhlula made an open gesture with his hand.
The two German brothers made a beeline for the men carving tools and weapons. They didn’t hunt in this traditional way much anymore, though they kept up sports for their heritage. Alex, to my surprise, wandered over to the kids who played under the watchful eye of a matronly woman sitting in the shade of the fence. The wide-eyed children approached him, and he squatted down to talk. I held the camera up to my face and snapped some photos as Alex chatted with them. The kids all knew English pretty well; as Kuhlula had explained, it was now compulsory in school. Alex and the young girl, maybe eight years old, started holding up fingers and counting together in Xitsonga. She giggled at his pronunciation, repeating words back to him until he got it right. Soon they were surrounded by the rest of the kids, and Alex had them teaching him songs.
Someone tugged on my sleeve, a child—four years old? —with wide eyes and a snotty nose. He pointed at the screen of my camera.
“You are a smart little tot, aren’t you?” I crouched down further and aimed the camera his way. I snapped a few shots and pointed the screen toward us. He saw his own face on the camera and squealed in delight.
Of course, that drew attention, and soon all the kids were around me, posing for pictures and mugging for the camera. I took shot after shot, delighting them until Thomas rounded the guests up, and we loaded back into the Jeep. Many of the villagers came out to wave goodbye as we pulled away, waving back.
