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Mrs. Mac nods thoughtfully, then says, “I hope you make time to explore the country properly this time.”
I blink away my arctic thought, burying the crevasse I never thought would surface during an African holiday. “I’m off to Samburu.”
“Nice. I heard the lion population is on the rise there.”
“Perfect.”
Nairobi airport is jam-packed and as chaotic as usual. I’m not surprised to find that my flight has been delayed. They’re still weighing our bags.
Two women rush in, barely tugging their luggage. Why are they reminding me of the Hilton sisters in the nineties?Heels? You’re wearing heels to a safari?
As they run, one of their suitcases loses its wheel. The immobilized trunk tugs the woman back, and she falls.
“Jesus, Nance!” her friend gasps.
I get up and approach them. “Ladies, can I help you?”
The fallen girl mouths a yes, but nothing comes out. I give her a hand.
She takes it and hauls herself up. “Thank you.”
“Come, I’ll take care of that bag.” I carry the damaged suitcase. Jesus, what’s in it? “You’re not in the ivory trade, are you?”
The two ladies chuckle at me.
“Thank you, sir,” the one owning the suitcase replies. “Is this the flight to Samburu?”
“Yes.”
“God, so we’re not late?” the other asks.
“You would’ve been, but it’s your lucky day. They’re running way behind schedule,” I explain as I lead them to the guy who checked me in earlier. “I’m sure this gentleman will take care of you. Ladies.” I nod my goodbye.
An hour later, our flight departs. It’s a Cessna Caravan, and it’s full.
The two ladies sit in the row beside me. With their shiny blonde hair and orange bra tops, it’s almost impossible for my peripheral not to catch their movements and occasional glances.
Seeing how comfortable they look in their scanty attire, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ll be wearing something similar during the safari. Someone didn’t get the memo. No doubt the sand that will cling to their skin isn’t the kind of paradise touch they’re looking for. Besides, they’ll soon find out how ferocious the mosquitoes are, especially along the river. They’d better have brought some bug spray, and I hope they’re taking antimalarials too.
The women are attractive, and I was happy to lend a hand earlier. But to my eyes and my heart, they’re no different than the family of four behind them or the old couple in front of me.
Halfway through our flight, the sky turns gray. We’re heading straight into a thunderstorm. This should be routine for experienced pilots, but something isn’t right. Passengers start gasping and whining—not over the weather, but over the limp body of the pilot.
I scan the cabin, yelling, “Is there a doctor here?”
A man sitting in the backseat answers, “Yeah.” He looks to be a local guy.
“Help me out, man!” I remove my seatbelt and grab hold of the pilot’s chair backrest to keep my balance. The co-pilot is frantically calling air traffic control for help.
The storm is starting to give the plane a shake. The doctor arrives behind me after struggling to navigate to the front. “Lie him here.” He points to the narrow aisle, holding on to the cockpit partition. “Heart attack, likely.”
The plane shudders as it rides on a strong current.
“Whoa!” I yell to the co-pilot as I peer into the sky ahead. This isn’t a thunderstorm, it’s a friggin’ supercell, and we shouldn’t fly through it at all—let alone with a frightened man at the helm.
“We’ve got to turn around!” I tell the young pilot.
“We’re close. Doctors will be there waiting for us in Samburu.”
