Saint Lucia - A Short Story

Counselled against leaving the city before dawn by a troupe of beer swilling locals, Karen Goss laughed off the storm warnings as nothing more than everyday African chauvinism. Chauvinism, an African trait discussed at length between her and the girls over copious latte’s before leaving Sydney. As rainsqualls battered her dilapidated Volkswagen, the young medical graduate nervously drove east on a pot holed, South African highway.

Karen had arrived in Johannesburg a week ago, cut what she thought to be an ace deal on ‘Helga’ the Volkswagen Beetle and had then left the city, driving hard for the coastal village of Saint Lucia. Accepting a locum position, she sought to put distance between herself and a messy break up in Sydney and also to take in the African wildlife during the nine month contract. Crossing the northern bank of the Tugela River a rolling peal of thunder welcomed her to Zululand. Helga, not to be outdone reciprocated with a thunderous backfire of her own, heaved a massive sigh from within the bowels of her bonnet, farted and trundled to a graceful halt beneath a huge Marula tree. “Elegant, just beautiful girl” moaned Karen as a fresh wave of rain lashed the windscreen of the spent bug.
Reviling the virtues of fine German engineering, Karen curled herself up as comfortably as the back seat of the Beetle would allow, almost softened her views on African chauvinism and settled in to wait out the storm.
Groggy and cramped from restless slumber, Karen cleared a misted window with the back of her hand. Her eyes snapped into focus on a tribesman’s hand cupped face pressed hard against the steamy panel, his nose flattened and distorted by the glass. Shrieking loudly, she startled the big Zulu as much as he had her. Hurriedly locking the doors, she couldn’t help but giggle as the colossal man heaved his muddied frame to its feet and flashed the friendliest smile she’d seen since arriving in Africa. The gesticulating and hand waving that followed convinced Karen of her need to understand at least the basics of the local language. Helga, hauled unceremoniously up the mountainside by a team of Zulu oxen, restored some self-dignity with a first time start after having her spark restored. The installation of her new carburettor reminiscent of open-heart surgery and despite teeming rains, performed flawlessly for the rest of the journey.

Heavily steeled doors slammed shut imprisoning the offender within the barred confines of the massive trap. Dirk Steyn, Chief Ranger of the greater Saint Lucia Wetland Reserve and the Hippopotamus were old friends. Huberta, as Dirk affectionately named the old cow was a loner, a lumbering gargantuan who in her day was the matriarch of the largest herd in the Saint Lucia estuary. Gregarious by nature, she took poorly to her now solitary lifestyle after a particularly unceremonious dethroning. Ever the extrovert, Huberta kept Dirk busy in favouring the company of the local Zondi tribe, an Umfolozi clan of the Zulu people. Huberta of course took to the village gardens and once again Dirk found himself, much to the delight of the Zondi children and chagrin of the elders, waist deep in mud saving her hide. The old juggernaut was living a charmed life; it was only Dirks longstanding relationship with the Zulu’s, his fluency in their language and intimate understanding of local culture and folklore that saved her from the spear. “Back upstream for you old Salukwazi” Dirk grunted, referring to the hippo’s old age in Zulu, raising respectful chatter from the onlookers as he fastened the shackles of the winch, wondering where he would release her this time.
Leaving the highway at the hamlet of Mtubatuba, Karen gingerly crept along the dirt track to the banks of the Umfolozi River. Incessant rains had swollen the waterway; wild eddies swirled powerfully beneath an archaic, single lane Bailey bridge that linked Saint Lucia to the outside world. Silencing the engine, the creaks of the straining bridge carried clearly over the drumming rain that seemed to engulf her. “Almost there girl” Karen sighed with relief as she worked through the gears. Clenching the steering wheel in a death grip, Karen stabbed at the brakes as she felt herself sliding sideways, losing control of the car. Helga answered with a fetching rendition of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. In a recital that would have had the great composer rolling in his grave, the two slid helter skelter over the bridge facing in the opposite direction as they went. The performance ended in an inelegant grand finale of backfires and a plunge into the shallows of the estuary.

Rounding a bend in the river, Dirk slowed his boat and using the current, edged the vessel closer to the muddy, reed lined bank. Replacing the rifle in its holder he saw her knee deep in mud attempting to push the car from the river. “Are you mad woman?” enquired Dirk in a thick South African accent. Before Karen could answer she watched as a great mastiff leapt from the boat, cocked its leg and urinated on Karen’s right leg. “I’m sorry…….he always does that” blurted the burly Game Ranger as he sheepishly scolded the massive hound.”You really should get out of the river, the place is thick with croc’s” Dirk masked his laughter only by changing the subject.
Reeds moving against the current caught Dirks ever watchful eye. Shouldering the rifle he fired two shots into the bank. “What the bloody hell are you doing mate!” Karen screamed as she pulled herself from the mud. “Hippo, the most dangerous animal to man in Africa.” Dirk replied unable to contain the fits of hysteria welling up within him. Huberta emerged gracefully from behind the curtain of reeds. “You silly old cow” moaned Dirk as he fired two more shots above her head, sending Karen diving for the cover of a muddy knoll. “Enough, put that bloody rifle down and get me out of this river now!” demanded Karen, her quivering voice a frenzied cocktail of fear and rage. ”Look lady this is not New Zealand, this river is full of Croc’s and sharks just waiting to snack on ignorant Kiwi’s like you” responded Dirk, misplacing her accent. “You arrogant….” stammered Karen as she pulled herself from the sticky mud, unable to complete the sentence as she slipped backward landing on her behind, “It’s Australian, not Kiwi!” she yelled in disbelief as the boat powered away from the scene.
Months followed weeks in a blur of work and social activity for Karen. She saw Dirk occasionally but only from a distance, in the streets of the village, the local pub but the two never really crossed paths again after their heated riverside introduction. Once, in the market place on a Saturday morning, Dirks giant mastiff ran up to her, tail wagging and full of the joys of life, greeting her as if she were a long lost friend. Karen’s heart raced in the hope that he might find her whilst looking for the dog, that they might conveniently run into one another and be given a second chance. A whistle from somewhere within the crowd drew the dogs’ attention and it scampered away eagerly seeking out its owner. Craning her neck above the crowd to find him, a fleeting glance of his broad shoulders was all she got.

Inching the vessel closer to the trap, Dirk could see that the door was still open and the trigger armed. Suspecting that the mechanism might be faulty, Dirk jumped from the boat into muddied, waste deep water and waded toward the trap for a closer inspection. Making a few minor adjustments and happy that the cage was still functional he began the slow wade back to the boat. A deep throated growl from the dog balanced precariously on the gunwales of the boat stood the hair on the nape of his neck on end. It was a spine chilling growl he had heard only last month during the hunt for a marauding lion. He knew instantly from its riveted glare that his dog had seen something, something that he hadn’t. Reaching out with powerful strokes, Dirk rapidly closed the gap between himself and the boat, the dogs barking intensified.
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw it coming from the bank of the river. Reeds bucked toward him at blinding speed as he realised he was purposely being cut off from the boat. She burst from the rushes a seething mass of pent up fury. Closing fast, Huberta lifted Dirk in her mouth with consummate ease, thrashing him back onto the water before driving him beneath the surface with her massive hoof. A gaping wound open above his left eye, Dirk knew that it would not take the resident crocodiles long to scent out the blood infused waters. The muted barking of the mastiff was the last he heard before slipping into unconsciousness.

Piercing shafts of light pricked his eyes as he tried to focus on the blurred face before him. “Where am I” he stammered, pushing himself onto his elbows. “You’re a lucky man Dirk.” He recognised her voice. “Is that you Kiwi, I can’t see, my eyes are blurred what happened?” “Hippo, the most dangerous animal to man in Africa.” Karen replied, smiling at his arrogance, ecstatic at having accepted a full time position at the clinic.