said, slapping at her jeans.
The men looked puzzled, but Diana, running in Margaret’s direction, knew exactly what the problem was. “Shit!” she shouted. “Fire ants. She’s standing in a nest.”
Margaret swatted frantically. She looked down. A red mass was moving around her feet.
“Run!” Diana commanded. “Get your clothes off and run!”
“Oh,” Margaret said, and then again. Ants had invaded her boots and her jeans and were nearing her crotch. She felt as though she were being assaulted by Africa itself, the ground rising up to sting her to death.
“I need a towel, someone!” Diana shouted.
Margaret peeled off her clothes, unbuckling her belt and slipping the jeans to her calves, while Saartje and Diana tried to get her boots off. Red welts had already risen on her legs. There were dozens of trails of the red ants, some of which Margaret could see through the nylon of her underpants. She tried to fetch them out but then realized it would take too long. She pulled the underwear down and ran away from it. After that, her blouse, her bra. Diana and Saartje brushed off every ant they could find. They inspected her hair.
“Oh God,” Margaret said as they flicked ants from her back and neckline.
“Saartje,” Diana said. “I have extra clothes in my pack.”
Margaret wanted to levitate so that her feet no longer touched the ground. She knew that her clownlike antics would have seemed funny had the situation not been so painful. She noticed, in her nakedness, that Willem had turned away (Diana and Saartje seemed to have the situation well in hand) but that Arthur and Patrick were looking straight at her. Her husband, she understood, but what was Arthur up to? She shook the towel with a hard snap and wrapped herself in it. Arthur swiveled his head away but not before Diana saw the move.
Diana’s clothes were too small on Margaret, the shorts tight, the blouse not long enough.
“What do I do about these?” Margaret asked, pointing to her clothes, strewn in a nearly straight line as she had danced away from the nest of red ants. They reminded her of garments abandoned on the way to a bed.
“Leave them where they are,” Diana said. “Don’t go near them. They’re still full of ants.”
Patrick ran and snatched the hiking boots, holding them out in front of him, shaking them, tossing away the socks. He slapped at his wrists. The boots had to be saved.
The welts on Margaret’s body began to swell. She had them on her face and arms, torso, legs, and back.
“They’ve been known to kill people,” Diana said, putting her hand to Margaret’s forehead as if she expected fever already. “Good thing you weren’t alone.”
The image of herself alone in the Ngong Forest was one Margaret dismissed at once.
She thought about Arthur’s face and wrapped the towel around her waist as if it were a khanga. She put on the hiking boots that Patrick had so painstakingly inspected. Margaret walked with care, never looking up, wary of another sting from a hiding ant. Her lips swelled, which required a stop, during which Patrick inspected them. He asked if anyone had any Benadryl, but no one did. “Add that to the list,” Willem said, but all Margaret could do was nod. It was too painful to speak. Patrick let her lean on him as they made their way back to the Rover. There would be no visit to Finch Hatton’s grave that day.
Diana, tight-lipped, led them off the Ngong Hills. Arthur, Margaret noticed as they made a turn, was bringing up the rear.
Later, there was talk of postponing the big climb. But Margaret was adamant. They would go. Diana insisted as well. “She’ll be fine,” she predicted. “Perfectly fine.”
When she had returned to their own cottage, ants invaded Margaret’s dreams as they would a picnic lunch: the giant brown euphorbia tree outside her bedroom window seemed to be coming through the screen and poking her from time to time. Patrick gave her pills. The welts began to itch,
The men looked puzzled, but Diana, running in Margaret’s direction, knew exactly what the problem was. “Shit!” she shouted. “Fire ants. She’s standing in a nest.”
Margaret swatted frantically. She looked down. A red mass was moving around her feet.
“Run!” Diana commanded. “Get your clothes off and run!”
“Oh,” Margaret said, and then again. Ants had invaded her boots and her jeans and were nearing her crotch. She felt as though she were being assaulted by Africa itself, the ground rising up to sting her to death.
“I need a towel, someone!” Diana shouted.
Margaret peeled off her clothes, unbuckling her belt and slipping the jeans to her calves, while Saartje and Diana tried to get her boots off. Red welts had already risen on her legs. There were dozens of trails of the red ants, some of which Margaret could see through the nylon of her underpants. She tried to fetch them out but then realized it would take too long. She pulled the underwear down and ran away from it. After that, her blouse, her bra. Diana and Saartje brushed off every ant they could find. They inspected her hair.
“Oh God,” Margaret said as they flicked ants from her back and neckline.
“Saartje,” Diana said. “I have extra clothes in my pack.”
Margaret wanted to levitate so that her feet no longer touched the ground. She knew that her clownlike antics would have seemed funny had the situation not been so painful. She noticed, in her nakedness, that Willem had turned away (Diana and Saartje seemed to have the situation well in hand) but that Arthur and Patrick were looking straight at her. Her husband, she understood, but what was Arthur up to? She shook the towel with a hard snap and wrapped herself in it. Arthur swiveled his head away but not before Diana saw the move.
Diana’s clothes were too small on Margaret, the shorts tight, the blouse not long enough.
“What do I do about these?” Margaret asked, pointing to her clothes, strewn in a nearly straight line as she had danced away from the nest of red ants. They reminded her of garments abandoned on the way to a bed.
“Leave them where they are,” Diana said. “Don’t go near them. They’re still full of ants.”
Patrick ran and snatched the hiking boots, holding them out in front of him, shaking them, tossing away the socks. He slapped at his wrists. The boots had to be saved.
The welts on Margaret’s body began to swell. She had them on her face and arms, torso, legs, and back.
“They’ve been known to kill people,” Diana said, putting her hand to Margaret’s forehead as if she expected fever already. “Good thing you weren’t alone.”
The image of herself alone in the Ngong Forest was one Margaret dismissed at once.
She thought about Arthur’s face and wrapped the towel around her waist as if it were a khanga. She put on the hiking boots that Patrick had so painstakingly inspected. Margaret walked with care, never looking up, wary of another sting from a hiding ant. Her lips swelled, which required a stop, during which Patrick inspected them. He asked if anyone had any Benadryl, but no one did. “Add that to the list,” Willem said, but all Margaret could do was nod. It was too painful to speak. Patrick let her lean on him as they made their way back to the Rover. There would be no visit to Finch Hatton’s grave that day.
Diana, tight-lipped, led them off the Ngong Hills. Arthur, Margaret noticed as they made a turn, was bringing up the rear.
Later, there was talk of postponing the big climb. But Margaret was adamant. They would go. Diana insisted as well. “She’ll be fine,” she predicted. “Perfectly fine.”
When she had returned to their own cottage, ants invaded Margaret’s dreams as they would a picnic lunch: the giant brown euphorbia tree outside her bedroom window seemed to be coming through the screen and poking her from time to time. Patrick gave her pills. The welts began to itch,
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