Carol’s Column

The day Walter curled up and died at Satara

HAPPINESS is a cancellation at the Kruger Park over the Easter weekend.

“Yippee! We're going to the game reserve to relax,” said my husband triumphantly. “I've got us a hut for four at Satara.”

Which suited us fine as the two older boys were holidaying in Cape Town with their unsuspecting grandparents.

So, very early Friday morning, when the world was tucked up tightly in bed, we set off to relax in the bush.

Accompanied by two children, binoculars, bird, tree and snake books, biltong to nibble, padkos to munch, Walter and Dr Smithers, we were on our way.

Dr Reay Smithers only came into my life the day before we left, and, when I saw him, I knew he had to come, too.

“What's that?” said my husband, as I sat him gently on the passenger seat.

“That's Dr Smithers,” I replied with some asperity. “He's the Dr Spock of mammals.”

“The Doctor Spock of mammals?”

“Ja, what Roberts is to birds, Smithers is to mammals and no wildlife enthusiast should be without him.”

My husband looked blank.

“Dr Smithers is a zoologist at the University of Pretoria and he's just written a book called 'Mammals of the Southern African Subregion'. This is the book — it is coming with us to the Kruger Park.”

“We're the only family that travels with a reference library,” grumbled my husband. But Dr Smithers stayed on the front seat.

Walter was a different matter.

I met Walter for the first time when he jumped out of the food box as we drove out of the house.

It's an extraordinary thing. Immediately my offspring get into a motor car, they're hungry. And, as I adhere to the philosophy that all open mouths should be filled, I pack a hefty food box.

As I said, Jamie intimated he was starving, so I opened the foodbox to take out a chicken mayonnaise, cucumber and tomato sauce sandwich. And out popped Walter.

Red, fat, squashy and horrible, he resembled a puffadder of sorts.

Of course, I screamed. Any self-respecting mother would have.

“Ma, relax,” said Nicky, “that's only Walter.”

Yuk, I thought as I looked at Walter on my lap.

“He's my toy snake. I won him at the Rand Show and he's my friend.”

What happened to all the cuddly bears and frilly dolls that little girls used to play with? I suppose I should be thankful my delicate little daughter hadn't brought a toy machine gun to the Kruger Park.

And that is how Walter came too.

Our weekend of relaxation was off to an auspicious start.

It seemed everyone else was off to the game reserve for the Easter weekend. We drove bumper to bumper until we arrived at the gate.

Where we waited in a queue. Patiently ... the sounds of happy family chatter wafting through the car.

“Nicky, if you don't take your foot out of my face, I'll clobber you.”

“Jamie, the trouble with you is you’re just a boy. All boys stink.”

“And you're a warthog. A fat, horrible warthog.”

There's something about children, they'll always rise to the occasion.

We arrived at Satara feeling not a little weary.

“Right, let's sit down and have a beer,” said my husband.

“Aw, come on, Daddy, there's no time. We'll miss seeing the lions and the elephants.”

I don't know how many elephant there are at the Kruger Park — but after a full day's driving, we became acquainted with almost every one.

It was the same with zebras, impala and wildebeest. They were everywhere.

As were waterbok, buffalo and hippos.

And Dr Smithers showed his worth.

We'd watch a hippo snorting and yawning in his pool with a running commentary from behind.

“Ma, do you know that hippos are gregarious creatures?” said Jamie. “Do you know that they love other hippos and sometimes 15 of them live together. Can you imagine if we had 15 children?”

I shuddered.

“What's more, they are territorial and they mark their territory by distributing their faeces along their boundaries with a swish of their tail. You wouldn't like it if we did that, I bet, Ma,” he continued.

“Jamie, you don't have a tail,” I retorted.

“Well, what would you have said?”

While watching a herd of elephants frolicking in a mud bath, my daughter observed that elephants had a thick layer of cartilage on their feet which acted as shock absorbers.

“That's why they travel so silently. Dr Smithers also says they are pregnant for 22 months. Ma, thank heavens I'm not an elephant,” said Nicky.

I could only agree.

We arrived back at camp at 5.30pm. The last car in at the gate.

There wasn't really time for a beer. By the time we'd made the fire for the braai, prepared supper, cleared the car and eaten — it was time to walk around the camp, shining torches, looking for animal eyes.

Later, much later, I tried to get some sleep.

It wasn't easy with Nicky pushing me out of the narrow bed. Well, what can you do when a small 10-year-old arrives wide-eyed saying she can't sleep in case a lion gets her?

We were awake at 5.30am, washed, dressed and ready to be the first car out of camp.

For 15 years, my husband has maintained that it's important to be the first car out of camp in order to see all the animals still sleeping on the road.

At 6am there was not one animal sleeping on the road in the Kruger Park. In fact, if there were any animals sleeping next to the road, we didn't see them either.

“It's nice to be up early, isn't it?” said my spouse as we drove slowly along the Timbavati River road looking for animals that weren't there.

“Great, great,” I muttered, “there's nothing like it.”

The days passed quickly — and at night we tumbled into camp, exhausted, exhilarated and suffering from eye strain.

Walter died at a waterhole on our last day in the Park.

As two turtles mated on a lily pad, there was a dreadful wail from the rear.

“Walter's dying! Walter's dying!” cried Nicky.

“Oh my God,” growled my husband, “let him die!”

And Walter did. With a loud bang he burst, spraying water all over the car and its unfortunate inhabitants.

“Us and the turtles,” murmured Jamie.

It seemed that Walter the toy snake couldn't take the hot, African sun. He'd blown up like a balloon and burst.

What a tragedy.

Nicky was bereft. The turtles did their thing and we tried hard not to laugh.

That night, we buried Walter under a sausage tree at Skukuza, and sent him off with a prayer and a beer.

Yes, happiness is a cancelled booking at the Kruger Park over the Easter weekend.

And this week, back in the concrete city, all I can do is envy Walter.

Lying under a sausage tree at Satara for ever.

Lucky Walter.

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