Mysteries of the Sahel

Fred’s map showed a village, but now he had arrived, all there was only a handful of abandoned and dilapidated huts. He pushed Wylma to one of them, leaned her up against a post and sat on his haunches in the shadow of a wall.

This is bad. Very bad. He said to himself. Very bad indeed.

The heat was oppressive and the Sirocco wind was stiff. The trail was mainly sand and Wylma’s wheels preferred to sink into, rather than rolling over it. The laboured meandering path they took was more often Wylma’s choice, than Fred’s.

He checked his water sack again, but he already knew it was empty. He only had one and a half litres of water left with over 20 kilometres to the next village. That equation did not work. Fred knew he would not make it. He had foolishly counted on a refill here, but the discovery of the abandoned village had exposed the folly of his dangerous miscalculation.

Feeling a little regenerated, Fred stood and walked a lap of the village. As he expected, he found the village well, and with that discovery, also learned why the village was abandoned. The water level was about five metres below ground, but floating in the water was a dead animal. The mysterious carcass was infested with flies and carried a thick and pungent stench.

Fred found an old bucket, attached a cord to its handle, fetched his water sack and filter and got to work. After extracting what Fred thought was enough water to get out of this predicament he wet his hat and his shirt and set off again into the desert.

***

The afternoon heat was stifling. In the last few days, each afternoon would cloud over with the promise of a cool and wet respite, but instead, would only disappoint with an oppressively hot and heavy afternoon weight. Fred and Wylma had been riding for about two hours but had only covered around half the distance to the next village. Fred felt worn out and he was almost out of the good water. He forced himself to ration what remained, one warm mouthful every ten minutes, but after only two portions, the level of exertion in the fine sand and the heat overtook his needs. All he could do was halve the time between rations…, and half the time till he ran out.

The small Acacia tree he stopped at for the last drink five minutes ago was still visible dancing on the horizon when Fred and Wylma went down heavily in a sand drift. Fred was slow to get up. Throat dry and gritty, legs soft and wobbly, and not a shred of shade. He sat there for some minutes catching his breath and working up the motivation for another push. He took a large mouthful of water and checked the bottle. A pathetic sip is all that was left sloshing in the bottom. Hardly a mouthful left, Fred ruefully thought. He consulted the map to find he was not even halfway there. This is getting dangerous. There would be nobody driving past on this trail. Nobody to help, no shade, no clean water. Shit!

Fred had studied desert survival, but much of the theory relies on starting ‘well before’ dehydration begins, not when it is already upon you. By the time your energy and will had already been sapped by the elements, is far too late to begin. Sitting still is certain death, he sternly said, stating the obvious to himself and Wylma. Fred remounted Wylma and rejoined his marathon struggle against the sandy trail and the relentless Sirocco.

The sand was getting worse. Wylma wrestled Fred for every metre of progress. Now there were patches of sand that were impossible to ride through, leaving Fred no choice but to push. A dangerous drain on his waning energy and resolve.

After fifteen minutes of exhausting struggle, Fred came to a stop next to another anaemic tree. The shade it cast barely registered in the baking heat. It was at this point that the abstraction of Fred‘s predicament finally shattered. He had put the tainted water out of his mind, till now. At the time, he still clung to an irrational optimism, convinced the trail would improve, convinced that he could somehow make it to the next village on his good water. This confidence, now shattered, left Fred confronting the reality of the fetid water. The only way he was getting out of this alive. He drained the last dribble of good water, then opened his water sack to fill his empty water bottle. The stench of the warm water made Fred gag.

With his parched throat and a full bottle of water, a new doubt as to whether this idea would save him, or seal his doom made him pause. He took another sniff at the open bottle, oh that is bad! Fred held his breath, held up the bottle to toast the gods and took a deep swallow. He got the water down, but paid for it with a fit of coughing. The taste in his mouth was foul beyond belief. He spat in the hopes of clearing the vile aftertaste, without luck.

He set off again. The trail mercifully did not deteriorate any further and even tantalised with a few decent sections of harder trail permitting him to build up some dangerous momentum. He even imagined that the blow dryer which had been blasting him all day was losing interest. At his third water stop, Fred caught himself thinking that the water didn't taste all that bad. The rationing now forgotten, he took a few long drafts and felt rejuvenated again.

***

The afternoon shadows lengthened, but the heat stubbornly persisted. Fred eventually admitted the next village was out of reach today, and the time to search for a campsite was quickly approaching. Off in the shimmering distance, a stand of acacia trees came into view. Fred knew he had to have his camp set, and dinner done before dusk. At these latitudes, sunset was only a short beautiful ceremony, with the day giving way to night as fast as flicking a light switch!

Now under the anaemic trees, He snapped off a branch and used it to clear the dry leaves and thorns from his campsite. He then checked over Wylma’s tires for any of the inch long thorns that littered the ground. There would be no campfire tonight, so he got his stove out to prepare dinner. With the meal now finished, he cleaned up with dry sand (one does not waste water on cleaning dishes in the desert!)

Perfect timing! Fred thought to himself. The sun’s vertical trajectory was just about to meet the flat brown horizon. Nature was ready to put on a blazingly beautiful, albeit rapid sunset to mark the end of another adventurous day. He opened his drink bottle and took a final long draw on his water. He amazed himself with the admission that the water was actually quite good. It still did not hold a candle to the sweet cold mountain lake waters of Switzerland, a glass of which he would be prepared to pay a high price right now, but despite this, the water was OK. In fact it was more than OK, his mood had dramatically improved once he had started on the new water. Now standing boldly, the master of his surroundings, Fred felt strong and confident - and something more… Powerful?

 As he watched the last thin crescent of fire disappear behind the darkening landscape, a distant howl cut through the dusk air. This was followed by a long sick cackle from an accomplice somewhere nearby. Hyenas. “We’re not alone”, Fred said with an ominous tone. The curtain of night drew over the land with abrupt suddenness throwing everything into complete darkness. With nothing more to do except swat at hungry bugs looking for their own dinner, Fred crawled into his tent, stripped off, lay down, shut his eyes and was deep asleep within minutes.

***

A loud crack of a dry twig woke Fred from his deep sleep. He had no idea what time it was, but a second more faint noise brought him completely awake. Something’s moving around the camp. Fred kept still and kept his breathing as regular and quiet as possible. Crunching leaves and the odd grunts could be heard from all around the camp. Then came a sniffing sound. Very close! Again, <sniff, sniff>. It was right outside the door.

Fred was up on hands and knees, face almost touching the thin insect screen separating him from the outside world. The air outside had cooled, but this was a dim contrast to the hot, wet and rancid breath of his visitor. Fred could not only smell, but feel each breath exhaled on his face. The tension in the air was electric. Both he and his mysterious nocturnal visitor were on tenderhooks separated by mere centimetres. Fred wracked his mind for a response to the intrusion. Gently he felt around in his handlebar bag for his camera. He gently switched it on, waited for the faint whine of the flash to charge, brought it up to the screen, and fired. The flash was blinding. It was then followed by the buzz of the mechanical film winder to complete the operation.

The animal yelped and retreated. His accomplices joined in with their nervous sniggering. They had been startled but not scared away. Fred reflexively acted. He climbed out of the tent as fast as he could, lifted his arms aggressively in the air and struck his most imposing pose. To complete his entrance, he let out his best roar.

The moon was out and the landscape was draped in a dim pale glow. More than a dozen skittish Hyenas stood in a rough arc about twenty paces away. For some frozen seconds, a fragile stalemate held. The spell was broken when the alpha male summoned enough courage to take a few careful steps toward Fred. He was followed by a few others.

Fred’s heart was pounding in his chest, but it was not fear that gripped him, it was excitement. Introspectively, he was puzzled at his lack of fright. He stood there naked and exhilarated, adrenalin surging through his veins making his skin tingle. He even felt an erection stir.

He stepped sideways keeping his eyes on his antagonists and retrieved his discarded branch. The Hyenas were overcoming their trepidation and began approaching again with more confidence. Fred let out a low growl which gave his assailants another nervous pause. What will it take to be rid of these beasts?, he thought quickly to himself.

With under ten metres left between them, time to think was over. As if it were prearranged, both Fred and the alpha dog launched their attacks at exactly the same time. Hyenas are not known for bold action, but backed up by his pack, the alpha made a convincingly aggressive lunge for Fred. Fred made his own lunge raking a wide arc with the thorn encrusted branch heavily sweeping it across the animal's face. This confused his adversary. Fred, tapping some unknown primitive well of aggression, lept at the confused Hyena ramming the splintered stub of the branch into one of its eyes.

Now Fred was straddling the desperately whining and yelping brute, beating it mercilessly with the thick bloodstained stub of the branch. In an explosion of primal energy, Fred dropped the branch and bare handed locked onto the lower and upper jaws of the Hyena and poured all his strength into pulling them apart. The adrenaline fuelled frenzy imbued Fred with a burst of superhuman strength that overpowered the animal imposing jaws. The Hyena whimpered with pain, and trembled with effort to fight off this formidable opponent. Fred’s thighs were clamped down hard around the neck of the beast, his shoulder and arm muscles strained with maximum power. The panicked Hyena gave a final twitch as it’s lower jaw snapped off. The Hyena went limp under him.

Scrambling to his feet, he faced the rest of the pack, puffed out his torso, and gave a threatening growl, but it was clear their will had been broken. None seemed inclined to follow their doomed leader. They milled about casually for a few seconds, then retreated silently into the spinifex.

Fred felt unreal. He had tapped some ancient primeval energy. This force now infused him, surging through his veins. He now stood tall, muscles still tense, twitching for action. Every smell was exquisitely obvious. The Hyena’s fur on his torso, its fear, its blood. He could also smell the traces of fear of the rest of the pack. The smell of his own sweat, confident and powerful. Behind all this was the sound of his thumping heart, each beat echoed by the blood racing past his ears, along with the buzz of the first flies to find their new banquet.

Fred had no idea how long he stood there. The pure alpha sensation was intoxicating. In that moment he was the king of the desert. He took a water bottle from Wylma and guzzled it down. Just a dozen hours ago, this would have made him vomit, but now he felt an alien surge of power and fortitude. The taste was still there but there was something else in the water. Something energising. He looked at the dead hyena and then at the water with a new awareness.

He gradually came down from his high. The body of the dead Hyena will attract the pack again. I have to get rid of it. He thought clinically.

He stepped up to the body, in one fluid motion he threw the animal over his shoulder and strode off into the dry grass. He dropped it some distance from the camp, returned, drank again, and retreated to his tent. It was only then that he noticed the Acacia thorns in his feet. Dozens of them, some deeply installed. The pain they should have inflicted only came slowly as he busied himself removing them. He then used some water to wash away the blood. As he completed this, a wave of relief and fatigue washed over him. He lay back and promptly fell asleep.

***

He missed the dawn the next morning, waking to the building heat in his tent. His recollection of the events of the night were fuzzy. He could not recall the hard details, instead he could only evoke soft-edged images of the encounter. What was easier to recollect was the intoxicating power he had experienced. He walked to where he had discarded the dead Hyena just to prove the events of last night to himself. Now sober, he wondered at the well of raw power he must have tapped into to have killed an alpha Hyena with his bare hands. That power that had surging through him was something wholly new and novel. And there was something else. The secret was somehow entwined with the water.

As he finished breaking camp he took another deep draw from his water bottle and wondered at the well. What was the nature of the beast which gave its life in that well, in exchange for mine.