Read Online I Stand Corrected by Eden Collinsworth - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Eden Collinsworth
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have seen a redhead. Your hair could be a magnet for unforeseen trouble.”
“Don’t be absurd,” I said dismissively.
From London, we flew to Dar es Salaam, where, in the late hours of night, we connected with another flight—an antiquated twin-engine plane—to Arusha, also in Tanzania. As soon as I stepped off the plane’s rickety stairs into pitch dark, something happened. Something unforeseen.
Hurling itself kamikaze-style from out of nowhere, a gigantic bat dove straight into my hair, which had been piled loosely into a bun. The impact of its plunge produced such a head-snapping jolt that I lost my balance and fell backward. It took two people on the tarmac—one holding me down, the other disengaging the bat from its snarled confusion—to rescue me from what would be the first in a series of unexpected encounters my hair would have with African nature.
Crossing Tanzania by jeep the next day was anything but comfortable. By the time we put up the tent that night, I was numb with exhaustion; after maneuvering myself into my sleeping bag, I let out enough of a sigh for my brother to ask if I was already regretting the trip.
Not at all, I said. Granted, the prehistoric-size bat intenton nesting in my hair wasn’t a particularly welcoming greeting. Still, I was very much looking forward to the following day and our drive across the Maswa Game Reserve.
“We’re leaving early,” said my brother. “We should get some sleep.”
“Can you shut off the light,” I asked.
The request produced a benign chuckle from my tentmate.
“What’s so funny?”
“That’s the moon, city girl.”
When I woke the next day, dirty from the previous, the guide informed us there was water enough to drink, but not to bathe.
I had a choice: I could remain in a state of suspended panic, or I could brush my teeth with the single swig of water allotted to me that morning and get on with the day.
You’re not the point
, echoed the vastness beyond where I stood, and it occurred to me that to insist remote Africa should comply with my urban version of convenience was not only futile but showed an inexcusable prudishness on my part.
Gorillas forage in the upper regions of Rwanda’s Virunga Mountains. By the time we got to the mountains’ base, it had been three days and nights since my clothes had been dry, ten days since I had bathed, and eleven days since my digestive system had cooperated. Continuing on foot, we hiked up a misted area known for its seventy-two inches of annual rainfall. During our eight-thousand-foot ascent, the temperature dropped in cold, wet degrees.
Our guide explained what to do and—more important—what not to do in the company of gorillas. He instructed us to remain sitting on the ground and not to, under any circumstances, stand upright. He warned us that direct eye contact is considered a threat by the silverback, the dominant male identified by his mammoth size and silver-colored back. We were told that if the silverback approached, we were to bow our heads as a gesture of supplication. Lastly, the guide advised us that if the silverback charged, we were not to run away.
“That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve heard,” was my reaction to the guide’s instructions. “Of course you run. What’sthe alternative? To stand your ground against four hundred pounds of charging gorilla? Another thing, I’m not wild about the idea of bowing my head.”
“You need to understand something,” my brother made clear. “I won’t be throwing myself between you and an outraged silverback, so if you have a problem bowing your head for a gorilla, you better come to terms with it now.”
“Okay, all right … I’ll bow my head,” I shot back. “But I want you to keep this to yourself. I mean it. If anyone I work with hears this, my credibility goes out the window.”
After we’d threaded our way through choking vegetation for two hours, the guide suddenly motioned to us to sit. We sat perfectly
“Don’t be absurd,” I said dismissively.
From London, we flew to Dar es Salaam, where, in the late hours of night, we connected with another flight—an antiquated twin-engine plane—to Arusha, also in Tanzania. As soon as I stepped off the plane’s rickety stairs into pitch dark, something happened. Something unforeseen.
Hurling itself kamikaze-style from out of nowhere, a gigantic bat dove straight into my hair, which had been piled loosely into a bun. The impact of its plunge produced such a head-snapping jolt that I lost my balance and fell backward. It took two people on the tarmac—one holding me down, the other disengaging the bat from its snarled confusion—to rescue me from what would be the first in a series of unexpected encounters my hair would have with African nature.
Crossing Tanzania by jeep the next day was anything but comfortable. By the time we put up the tent that night, I was numb with exhaustion; after maneuvering myself into my sleeping bag, I let out enough of a sigh for my brother to ask if I was already regretting the trip.
Not at all, I said. Granted, the prehistoric-size bat intenton nesting in my hair wasn’t a particularly welcoming greeting. Still, I was very much looking forward to the following day and our drive across the Maswa Game Reserve.
“We’re leaving early,” said my brother. “We should get some sleep.”
“Can you shut off the light,” I asked.
The request produced a benign chuckle from my tentmate.
“What’s so funny?”
“That’s the moon, city girl.”
When I woke the next day, dirty from the previous, the guide informed us there was water enough to drink, but not to bathe.
I had a choice: I could remain in a state of suspended panic, or I could brush my teeth with the single swig of water allotted to me that morning and get on with the day.
You’re not the point
, echoed the vastness beyond where I stood, and it occurred to me that to insist remote Africa should comply with my urban version of convenience was not only futile but showed an inexcusable prudishness on my part.
Gorillas forage in the upper regions of Rwanda’s Virunga Mountains. By the time we got to the mountains’ base, it had been three days and nights since my clothes had been dry, ten days since I had bathed, and eleven days since my digestive system had cooperated. Continuing on foot, we hiked up a misted area known for its seventy-two inches of annual rainfall. During our eight-thousand-foot ascent, the temperature dropped in cold, wet degrees.
Our guide explained what to do and—more important—what not to do in the company of gorillas. He instructed us to remain sitting on the ground and not to, under any circumstances, stand upright. He warned us that direct eye contact is considered a threat by the silverback, the dominant male identified by his mammoth size and silver-colored back. We were told that if the silverback approached, we were to bow our heads as a gesture of supplication. Lastly, the guide advised us that if the silverback charged, we were not to run away.
“That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve heard,” was my reaction to the guide’s instructions. “Of course you run. What’sthe alternative? To stand your ground against four hundred pounds of charging gorilla? Another thing, I’m not wild about the idea of bowing my head.”
“You need to understand something,” my brother made clear. “I won’t be throwing myself between you and an outraged silverback, so if you have a problem bowing your head for a gorilla, you better come to terms with it now.”
“Okay, all right … I’ll bow my head,” I shot back. “But I want you to keep this to yourself. I mean it. If anyone I work with hears this, my credibility goes out the window.”
After we’d threaded our way through choking vegetation for two hours, the guide suddenly motioned to us to sit. We sat perfectly
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