Sleepless in Africa

Sleepless In Africa

Noel Laflin

7-29-14

“When you see the Southern Cross for the first time

You understand now why you came this way” – Crosby, Stills & Nash

“You awake, Mike?” I asked, staring at a very strange and disorienting African sky.  I reached for the fifth of sweet Southern Comfort  lying beside me.

“Yup,” the tall and lanky form stretched out upon his sleeping bag finally replied.  The croaking chorus of ten thousand frogs hidden amongst the reeds of the river bank very nearly drowned out his words.  “This is the worst jet lag ever,” I heard him say.  “But, at least we have this to look at.”  Mike’s arm stretched heavenward and swept in the vista.  I handed him the bottle.

A zillion stars blushed in acknowledgement.  And, not a one was remotely familiar.

 

“I’d always wanted to see the Southern Cross,” I said.  But since it set, I don’t recognize a single constellation.  Do you think we’ll be able to spot the Magellanic Clouds?”

“Ah, I hope so,” my raft-mate said.  “Although I haven’t a clue as to what I’m looking for.  But, how do you hide some twenty-billion suns anyway?  Think of that!”

And, I did.  The very notion of being able to view two neighboring galaxies with the naked eye, as our boatmen had assured us would happen this far south of the equator, was more than intriguing – it was mind blowing.  And so, a high school teacher from New York and a sales guy from California, both recently brought together seeking new adventure in a very old land, scanned the night skies above a very remote region along the shores of the Zambezi River.  We were either in Zambia or Zimbabwe.  I’m sure the stars above didn’t really care which it was – nor did we for that matter.

A loud slap on the water interrupted the star gazing.  The frog chorus went silent.

“Crocodile?”  Mike asked.

“Gotta be,” I said.  “That was his tail hitting the water for sure; and the frogs suddenly took five.  I hope he stays out of camp.”

“We should be alright up here on the bluff.” Mike said.  “There weren’t any tail depressions in the sand leading this way.  Not so sure about where the two girls made camp though; too close to the river, if you ask me.”

“I eyed their spot first, but noticed the heavy croc tail trail and those big old paw prints dragging up that way.  The girls asked if I was going to grab that spot but I said they could have it.  I never told them why; thought they’d figure it out. Their dad spread his gear out close by.  I suppose they’ll be alright as he’d be a closer meal, if it came to that.”

“You know, the crocs are one thing, but the freakin’ baboons are worse,”  Mike said. “Now, they’ll steal you blind.”

“Yeah, a cab driver in Vic Falls had me roll up all the windows coming through town because of the baboons.  Guess they’ll reach right in and grab anything shiny if you’re stopped for more than a second.”

“They broke into my room the night before we headed out here,” Mike said.  They worked the latch to one of the louvered windows that was barely open and let themselves right in.  Dragged my duffle bag outside and had their way with it.  Tore open all the film cartridges because they were packaged in gold foil.  They are bold little fuckers, to be sure.”

“One of the crew said that they’ve heard explosions on past trips.  He claims it’s large groups of baboons running the countryside and tripping off old land mines left over from the Rhodesian Bush War,” I noted.  We had seen families upward of a hundred or more, babies clinging to the backs of their mothers, loping across the savanna and coming down to the river to drink and bathe nearly every day.

 

“Did you know,” Mike replied, “that a large group of baboons is known as a congress?  I’d like to see some congressmen back home have to run a minefield or two.”

We laughed and passed the Southern Comfort between the two of us once more, toasting the thought.

A chorus of frogs took up song once again.

“Croc moved on, I guess,” Mike said.

“Never heard any screams from the girls, so I guess they’re okay for now,” the teacher surmised.

“Probably got their dad instead,” I concluded. 

“Hey, what’s that up there?” Mike asked, pointing the bottle skyward.

I focused on two distinct faint clusters of light, separated by a few degrees, twinkling some two hundred thousand light years beyond and above us.  They had not become apparent until all the talk of frogs, crocodiles and baboons had passed.

“Captain Magellan, you may have just located the illustrious ‘clouds’ that have been eluding us all evening,” I retorted.

“I’ve read,” said Mike, “that the larger ‘cloud’ – or grouping there - provided astronomers with an unexpected surprise nine years ago, when the light from an explosion of one of its stars, one hundred and fifty thousand years earlier, finally reached us.  It was the nearest supernova explosion since the seventeen hundreds.”

“The crew said the clusters would appear ‘ghostly’,” I quipped, without just a tad of wonder.  “To finally see the image of one of its twenty billion stars explode, oh so long ago, is like seeing a ghost.”  I took another swig of bourbon.

We stared heavenward for the rest of the evening.  Sleep, as formerly elusive as those twenty billion suns, finally overtook us.

It was the brilliant light from our one and only star that finally woke us.

That, and the racket the family of baboons were making as they tried to unzip my backpack.