WE SPENT THREE DAYS walking, laughing, drinking, mingling with the animals.
Not just wild animals. By chance we met up with a snake wrangler, who showed us his cobra, his rattlesnake. He manipulated the snakes up and down his shoulders, his arms, giving us a private show.
Later that night, Chelsy and I had our first kiss under the stars.
George, meanwhile, fell head over heels in love with her girlfriend.
When the time came for Chelsy and her girlfriend to go home, and George to go back to Australia, and Marko to go back to London, there were sad goodbyes all around.
Suddenly I found myself alone in the bush, with just Adi.
What now?
We heard about a camp nearby. Two filmmakers were doing a wildlife documentary and we were invited to go round and meet them.
We jumped into a Land Cruiser and soon found ourselves in the middle of a raucous bush party. Men and women drinking, dancing, all wearing bizarre animal masks made from cardboard and pipe cleaners. An Okavango Carnival.
The leaders of this mayhem were a couple in their thirties: Teej and Mike. They were the filmmakers, I gathered. In fact, they owned a whole film company, plus this camp. I introduced myself, complimented them on their ability to throw a truly epic bash. They laughed and said they were going to pay for it tomorrow.
Both had to get up early for work.
I asked if I could tag along. I’d love to see how the filmmaking was done.
They looked at me, then at each other. They knew who I was, and while it was surprising enough to meet me in the bush, the idea of hiring me as a helper was a lot to take in.
Mike said: Course you can come. But you’ll have to work. Lift heavy boxes, lug cameras around.
I could see from their faces that they expected that to be the end of it. I smiled and said: Sounds great.
They were shocked. And pleased.
It felt something like love at first sight. On both sides.
Teej and Mike were Africans. She was from Cape Town; he was from Nairobi. She’d been born in Italy, however, spent her first years in Milan, and took special pride in her Milanese roots, the source of her soulfulness, she said, which was as close to a boast as you’d ever hear from Teej. She’d even grown up speaking Italian, though she’d forgotten it, she said sadly. Except she hadn’t. Any time she went into a hospital she shocked everyone by coming out of the anesthetic speaking fluent Italian.
Mike had grown up on a farm, learned to ride horses not long after he’d learned to walk. By chance his next-door neighbor was one of the first-ever wildlife filmmakers. Every time Mike got a free minute he’d run next door and sit with this
neighbor, barrage him with questions. Mike had found his one true calling and the neighbor recognized it, fostered it.
Both Teej and Mike were talented, brilliant, and wholly devoted to wildlife. I wanted to spend as much time as possible with these two, not just on this trip but in general. The problem was, would they let me?
I’d often catch Teej looking in my direction, sizing me up, a curious smile on her face—as though I were something wild that had unexpectedly wandered into their camp. But instead of shooing me, or using me, as many would’ve done, she reached out and…petted me. Decades of observing wildlife had given her a feel for wildness, a reverence for it as a virtue and even a basic right. She and Mike were the first people ever to cherish whatever wildness was still inside me, whatever hadn’t been lost to grief—and paps. They were outraged that others wanted to eliminate this last bit, that others were keen to put me into a cage.
On that trip, or perhaps the next, I asked Teej and Mike how they’d met. They smiled guiltily.
Mutual friend, Mike mumbled. Blind date, Teej whispered.
The setting was a small restaurant. When Mike walked in, Teej was already at the table, her back to the door. She couldn’t see Mike, she could only hear his voice, but even before turning around she knew, from the tone, the timbre, the change in room temperature, that she was in big trouble.
They got on beautifully over dinner, and the next day Teej went to Mike’s place for coffee. She nearly fainted when she walked in. On the top shelf of his bookcase was a book by her grandfather, Robert Ardrey, a legendary scientist, essayist, writer. (He’d won an Oscar nomination for the screenplay of Khartoum.) In addition to her grandfather’s books, Mike had all Teej’s other favorites arranged in the same order as they were arranged on her own shelves. She put a hand to her mouth. This was synchronicity. This was a sign. She never went back to her apartment, except to pack her stuff. She and Mike had been together ever since.
They told me this story around the campfire. With Marko and that lot, the campfire was central, but with Teej and Mike it was sacrosanct. The same drinks went round, the same riveting stories, but it felt more ritualistic. There are few places where I’ve felt closer to truth, or more alive.
Teej saw it. She could tell how at home I felt with them. She said: I think your body was born in Britain, but your soul was born here in Africa.
Possibly the highest compliment I’d ever received.
After a few days of walking with them, eating with them, falling in love with them, I felt an overwhelming peace.
And an equally overwhelming need to see Chelsy again.
What to do? I wondered. How to make it happen? How to get into Cape Town without the press seeing and ruining it?
Adi said: Let’s drive!
Drive? Huh. Yes. Brilliant!
It was only two days, after all.
We jumped into a car, drove without stopping, drinking whisky and gobbling chocolate for energy. I arrived at Chelsy’s front door barefoot, scruffy, crowned with a filthy beanie, a huge smile creasing my dirty face.
She gasped…then laughed. Then…opened the door a bit wider.
