Carol’s Column

They say crocs lurk in the waters of the swamps

SO WHAT was a middle-aged woman with four children doing crocodile hunting in deepest Africa, you might ask.

Good question.

I asked it myself as I sat in a small, rocking boat on a coal-tar night in the heart of the Okavango delta.

It is not inappropriate to say that the boat was rocking in time to the chattering of my teeth.

I remembered what the members of my knitting club had said a few days earlier.

"You're so brave," remarked Esther Tuttle as we clicked and clacked away together, needles flashing, wool flying.

Agnes Hotch agreed: "To go off to the wilds of Africa with your husband and children. I think you're absolutely wonderful, Carol."

I'd adjusted my contact lenses and smiled modestly. I could only agree.

"Oh it's exciting. I've always gone for a little bit of adventure here and there," I'd said smugly at the time.

I must have been mad I thought to myself. This is crazy.

My husband, the Big White Hunter, resplendent in his cut-off jeans and bush boots, gave me a nudge.

"This is the life, hey?" he whispered in my left eardrum causing my pith helmet to drop on to my nose.

I shuddered.

But then I should have known better.

I married a man with a sense of adventure and for 18 years we have been holidaying where no normal person would ever tread.

It is not an exaggeration to say that I have met almost every thornbush, poisonous spider, scorpion and black mamba in Southern Africa.

Which is why we were sitting in the middle of the swamps looking for crocodiles by torchlight. Purely to observe them, of course, not to turn them into briefcases and handbags.

Colin, a crocodile enthusiast friend, had offered us a midnight trip to see these "fascinating creatures" as he described them, in their natural environment.

The kids were ecstatic. They leant over the bow of the boat, shining the huge spotlight against the papyrus and reed banks and looking for the two red lights — croc eyes — that would pinpoint the reptiles.

"Don't trail your hands in the water. Put your feet in the boat. No, you can't swim," I screeched.

It wasn't that I was nervous or hysterical, you understand. It was just that when you live with your children in such close proximity, you become attached to them. Besides, they were the only ones we had.

"Sneaky little beasts, aren't they?" I said to my husband with relief. "They're obviously hiding from us."

Just then, the boat swerved and my water bottle, snakebite kit and salt tablets clattered to the deck as it took off at a furious pace.

Then slowly, silently, we slithered through the reeds.

"It's really dark here, isn't it?" I muttered to my spouse. "Quite eerie really."

Just then, there was a yell. "There he is!" I heard someone shout.

There was a flurry and a scurry. I heard splashing and grunting.

The kids screamed with excitement: "Look Ma, look! Colin's caught a crocodile!"

It was so dark, I couldn't see a thing.

There was another splash, then silence.

"What a beautiful creature, he's prehistoric and magnificent," sighed my husband. "Did you see that bright, shining belly, did you see those enormous teeth, the glinting eyes? He looked as if he'd been around for ever. Wasn't he wonderful?

"What a tale to tell the knitting girls when you get back. How you sat with a croc in a boat," he laughed delightedly to himself.

"Did you ever see such a sight.

"Fantastic," I breathed. "Fantastic."

This was not the time to tell him that my pith helmet had slipped down yet again and that in fact I hadn't seen a thing.

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