be.
“I certainly feel better,” he said. “Whatever bug I had is gone.”
She spontaneously kissed his freshly shaven cheek, which smelled of a mix between lime and eighteenth-century medicinal balm. “Merry Christmas.”
He arched an eyebrow. “You’re in a good mood.”
She was. Whatever dark thoughts she’d had during the night about world-hopping assassins seemed even more ludicrous on such a fine, sunny morning. Moreover, she was excited about heading down into the crater, given it was one of the best places in Africa to view animals in their natural habitat.
Outside the villa, Silly was standing next to the Land Rover dressed in his neatly pressed safari uniform and bush hat. Scarlett snapped a picture of him with the Nikon camera hanging around her neck, then they were off, traveling west along the crater rim. Early morning dew coated the long grass and shrubs while a thousand birds chirped and whistled and sang in the branches overhead. At the gate to the crater, a green sign announced the caldera was a conservation area, a world heritage site, a biosphere reserve, yadda yadda. Scarlett told Sal to go stand in front of it so she could snap a photo. He was having none of it. He might be many things, but a picture guy he was not.
Seneto Descent Road was the official name of the road that switch-backed down the interior wall of the crater. Silly, however, referred to it as the Elephant Pass, which Scarlett found to be more fitting. It wasn’t so much a road but a narrow, winding, and very steep dirt track.
As they progressed, the morning mist thickened, creating a primordial, Jurassic atmosphere, as if they were not only descending into a collapsed volcano but back in time as well. At one point the track tiptoed along the edge of a sheer cliff face that plunged away hundreds of feet to the crater floor below. A signpost with the words “POLE POLE”—which Silly translated to mean “Slowly Slowly”—drifted past in the curdling fog. Scarlett looked away from the window. The memories of Laurel Canyon were still raw. And if she went over the edge here, she wouldn’t be waking up in a hospital; she wouldn’t be waking up anywhere ever again.
Her anxiety, however, turned out to be for naught. Thirty minutes later bright sunlight pierced the thinning fog, and by the time they reached the bottom—thank God—the weather was postcard perfect. The view was just as spectacular as it had been from the lodge. The soda lake shimmered pink with thousands of flamingos. The savanna, which was dotted with yellow fever trees and gently undulating hills, stretched away like spun gold. And in every direction the rocky walls of the caldera towered high, a forbidding barrier to keep the outside world out.
“Look!” Silly said, slowing to a halt and pointing to a patch of tussock three hundred feet to the left of them.
Scarlett poked her head out the Land Rover’s modified roof and peered through the binoculars. She zeroed in on a cheetah that was stretched out on its side, its long, thick tail curled behind it. She passed the binoculars to Sal, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. Damn hot. And it was barely eight in the morning.
Silly snatched the CB microphone from the radio unit attached to the dash, depressed the transmit switch, and said something in Swahili. His small face melted into a frown. He fiddled with a few knobs, flicked between channels, and spoke again.
“What’s wrong?” Scarlett asked him.
“The radio isn’t transmitting.”
“Who do you need to speak to?”
“I was going to call in the cheetah sighting so the next group down the Elephant Pass will spot it.” He shook his head in frustration. “It works both ways. Now we will not hear when any of the Big Five are spotted.”
“Maybe the antenna’s broken?” Sal suggested.
Silly went around to the back of the Land Rover and examined the tire carrier. He returned to the front seat and said, “It’s gone,
“I certainly feel better,” he said. “Whatever bug I had is gone.”
She spontaneously kissed his freshly shaven cheek, which smelled of a mix between lime and eighteenth-century medicinal balm. “Merry Christmas.”
He arched an eyebrow. “You’re in a good mood.”
She was. Whatever dark thoughts she’d had during the night about world-hopping assassins seemed even more ludicrous on such a fine, sunny morning. Moreover, she was excited about heading down into the crater, given it was one of the best places in Africa to view animals in their natural habitat.
Outside the villa, Silly was standing next to the Land Rover dressed in his neatly pressed safari uniform and bush hat. Scarlett snapped a picture of him with the Nikon camera hanging around her neck, then they were off, traveling west along the crater rim. Early morning dew coated the long grass and shrubs while a thousand birds chirped and whistled and sang in the branches overhead. At the gate to the crater, a green sign announced the caldera was a conservation area, a world heritage site, a biosphere reserve, yadda yadda. Scarlett told Sal to go stand in front of it so she could snap a photo. He was having none of it. He might be many things, but a picture guy he was not.
Seneto Descent Road was the official name of the road that switch-backed down the interior wall of the crater. Silly, however, referred to it as the Elephant Pass, which Scarlett found to be more fitting. It wasn’t so much a road but a narrow, winding, and very steep dirt track.
As they progressed, the morning mist thickened, creating a primordial, Jurassic atmosphere, as if they were not only descending into a collapsed volcano but back in time as well. At one point the track tiptoed along the edge of a sheer cliff face that plunged away hundreds of feet to the crater floor below. A signpost with the words “POLE POLE”—which Silly translated to mean “Slowly Slowly”—drifted past in the curdling fog. Scarlett looked away from the window. The memories of Laurel Canyon were still raw. And if she went over the edge here, she wouldn’t be waking up in a hospital; she wouldn’t be waking up anywhere ever again.
Her anxiety, however, turned out to be for naught. Thirty minutes later bright sunlight pierced the thinning fog, and by the time they reached the bottom—thank God—the weather was postcard perfect. The view was just as spectacular as it had been from the lodge. The soda lake shimmered pink with thousands of flamingos. The savanna, which was dotted with yellow fever trees and gently undulating hills, stretched away like spun gold. And in every direction the rocky walls of the caldera towered high, a forbidding barrier to keep the outside world out.
“Look!” Silly said, slowing to a halt and pointing to a patch of tussock three hundred feet to the left of them.
Scarlett poked her head out the Land Rover’s modified roof and peered through the binoculars. She zeroed in on a cheetah that was stretched out on its side, its long, thick tail curled behind it. She passed the binoculars to Sal, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. Damn hot. And it was barely eight in the morning.
Silly snatched the CB microphone from the radio unit attached to the dash, depressed the transmit switch, and said something in Swahili. His small face melted into a frown. He fiddled with a few knobs, flicked between channels, and spoke again.
“What’s wrong?” Scarlett asked him.
“The radio isn’t transmitting.”
“Who do you need to speak to?”
“I was going to call in the cheetah sighting so the next group down the Elephant Pass will spot it.” He shook his head in frustration. “It works both ways. Now we will not hear when any of the Big Five are spotted.”
“Maybe the antenna’s broken?” Sal suggested.
Silly went around to the back of the Land Rover and examined the tire carrier. He returned to the front seat and said, “It’s gone,
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