Boyd Varty - Cathedral of the Wild: An African Journey Home

Cathedral of the Wild is a work of nonfiction. Some names and identifying details have been changed.

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Copyright 2014 by Boyd Varty

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Random House, an imprint and division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

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Photos courtesy of Londolozi Library unless otherwise noted.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Varty, Boyd. Cathedral of the wild : an African journey home / Boyd Varty.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-4000-6985-9
eBook ISBN 978-0-679-60485-3
1. Londolozi Game Reserve (South Africa)History.
2. Varty, Boyd. 3. Varty, BoydFamily. 4. Londolozi
Game Reserve (South Africa)Biography. 5. Wildlife conservationSouth AfricaLondolozi
Game ReserveHistory. 6. Wildlife conservationistsSouth AfricaLondolozi Game ReserveBiography. I. Title.
SK575.S5V37 2014
639.9096827dc23 2013022706

www.atrandom.com

Cover design: Anna Bauer
Cover photograph: Elsa Young

v3.1

In writing this book, Ive assimilated my memories as best I can. Ive also collected stories from various people who were present at the events I describe; each recounting was slightly different, so Ive had to decide for myself what the truest version is. So many of the stories of the early days of Londolozi, before I was born, have been told so many times that they have made the transition to fireside legend. I have tried my best to capture them. In a few instances, Ive compressed events that took place over several years into a single scene. Out of politeness, I have also changed some names and other identifying characteristics. South Africa is, in the end, a village, and not every home wants to have its doors flung wide open. I have re-created dialogue as closely as I can remember it, and I have at all times tried to be as accurate as possible. This story is a very personal one and so is told from my own viewpoint. This is the nature of all stories; you can recall them only within the frame of mind you are in during the recollection. I am a particularly messy human. This book is a by-product of mucking around in all that messiness, and its as honest and authentic as I know how to make it. I hope you will enjoy going on this safari with me.

Welcome to my campfire story.

T HE SNAKE WAS SLIDING over the backs of my legs, in slow motion but with purpose, like an army general inspecting his barracks, knowing that someone has been out of line. Dont move, Dad, I kept whispering. Dont move, dont move, dont move. The slightest motion and the snake would rear up and strike.

I was eleven, on a hunting expedition with my father. It was an overcast morning in September, early spring, and the rains had just arrived after the characteristic dry winters in the South African bushveld. The marula and acacia trees were just starting to flush green, and Dad and I had decided to stalk a herd of impalas grazing on the slope. After a few hours, we found ourselves entrenched on the side of a termite mound nearby. Id fired a shot but couldnt tell if the impala had gone down. Stay in position, Dad advised. Keep a lookout through the scope of the rifle. If the impalas still up, you can finish it off.

I loved being out with Dad. Id been going out with him almost every day of my life. When I was a baby, Mom would hold me in her arms as she sat next to him in the front seat of the Land Rover. As I got older, Dad would take me on short walks into the clearings around the house. Later, we went on longer walks into the bush that turned into hunting expeditions. These were my favorite times of day. As excited as I was, Dad always seemed even more enthusiastic.

At eleven, I was a rickety, gangly kid, more like a newborn wildebeest, all legs and arms. Dad, in contrast, had a profound ruggedness, as vital as the landscape around him, as if his body were battling to contain his energy. He was the outdoor clich of the game ranger: clear blue eyes, lean legs in short shorts, a thin khaki work shirt over his broad shoulders, and slip-on Jesus sandals. I always knew that so long as I was with him, I would be fine.

When I felt something sliding over my legs, the coffin-shaped head was the first thing I noticed, followed by three yards of black mamba draped over and around me as if someone had thrown a fat black garden hose out of the sky.

I grabbed my fathers arm. Oh shit, Dad, theres a mamba. Dont move.

The black mambas sheer size and mobility make it one of the most dangerous snakes. And its venom is exceedingly potent: if a mamba bites you, you will almost certainly be dead within thirty minutessooner if it strikes an area rich in blood vessels. A guy I knew who had miraculously survived a bite told me that he could taste the venom in his mouth almost the instant the snakes fangs sank into his leg.

I willed my body to stop pumping adrenaline, so that my heart wouldnt beat right out of my chest. The snake was now between my legs, making its way up the termite mound, toward our torsos. I didnt know if our nerve would hold if the snake made it to face height. The strain thickened the air, and in my peripheral vision I saw a line of red flowing from Dads mouth. Hed bitten through his cheek out of sheer fear.

At chest height, the mamba turned back in what seemed a taunting way. Again it crossed my legs, heading for my fathers feet, nearly naked in his sandals. As the snakes scales touched the bare skin on Dads instep, it changed course once again, gliding away from us, slowly, slowly.

The only escape route was up over the tall termite mound, which was crowned with a thick tangle of brushy buffalo thorn. I saw Dad begin to weigh it up in his mind: Was the mamba still too close? Could we get through the razor-sharp spikes of the thorn in time?

Go! he screamed. The mambas tail was still on my foot as we exploded up the mound. Dad pulled me in behind him and punched a hole in that thorn bush with his bare hands. It tore him to pieces. I came through without a scratch. He turned to me with blood coming out of his mouth and branches of thorn attached to his head. Shit, that was a close one, he muttered, almost to himself. Boydie, shityou all right? My old man is tough as nails, but he was rattled.

Dad told Mom the story as soon as we got home. It was a bad one, he said.

Mom pulled out her go-to article from the first aid kit: a bottle of homeopathic Rescue Remedy. She gave me four drops instead of the usual three, in acknowledgment of the magnitude of the trauma. There you go, Boydie, youve been through a shock. She slung a huge jacket around me. Youve got to keep warm when youve got shock.