On the morning of our departure, I announced the following: “I would like to go on the proverbial record before we get to Botswana and say that I do not believe a gorilla would ever attack me.”
“I don’t mean to sound like a paleontologist, but there are no gorillas where you are going, Chelsea. They are in the Congo,” Rex replied, then paused. “I would also like to announce I have another furlough coming up in four days, and if you need a seventh addition to even out your group, I would be willing to join you girls when you get to Botswana.”
This was the best news I had received since winning my second-grade spelling bee, where I had come in third, but I managed to play it cool, with my one boot and one sneaker firmly planted in the sand.
“Either way, I don’t believe one would attack me.”
I kissed Rex on both cheeks as if we were in Europe and bid him adieu, even though, secretly, I knew this was not good-bye.
CHAPTER 3
CAMP DUMBO
June 27, Wednesday
It wasn’t easy leaving Rex after spending four days bonding with him and watching him get shit-faced every night, but it was time to move on. The six of us were very quiet on the flight to Camp Dumbo; no one had the guts to admit it was because we were in mourning for our new boyfriend. We knew we had to be big girls, and we all felt like we had matured beyond our years (except Hannah) just by traversing to this unknown continent. We were international, we had all turned into plus-sized models, and now we were ready to mount elephants.
Camp Dumbo was pitched to us as the perfect interim safari sandwiched in between South Africa and Botswana. Here, we would be able to ride elephants, play with lions, and feed hyenas; basically, it was a zoo for slow adults.
I sensed there was an issue as soon as we were picked up from our forty-minute plane ride by another white South African named Corbin, whose accent wasn’t nearly as charming as Rex’s and whose mouth and lips looked like a cross between a seven-layer dip and a vagina. He was fat, in his fifties, and not fun. He sounded like Crocodile Dundee with a horrifying lisp, and his hair was a thinning, desiccated mullet. He wore a gold necklace with the Star of David on it, and told us he was a “Jew for Jesus.” He had the worst breath I’d ever smelled in my entire thirties. The fact that we were in an open-air vehicle and I was sitting behind him and could still smell his breath made me want to capture a bumblebee and trap it in his mouth. I pulled the bandana that was wrapped around my head down around my mouth and turned it into a surgical mask.
Within minutes of meeting him, he told us that he and his wife had been unable to conceive, and that was why they had decided to start an elephant camp—an obvious alternative for a couple trying unsuccessfully to make a baby.
Corbin was like a human calzone, the type of man who would walk around his house in front of his wife wearing nothing but a Hawaiian button-down shirt. I imagined the phone in his house ringing and him running from the kitchen to answer it in nothing but that Hawaiian shirt and a pair of tube socks with his dick swinging around like a ceiling fan, and in one hand holding a tube of Velveeta.
The six of us exchanged looks of consternation as we set out on a long, flat dirt road with nothing in sight. It was clear from the abominable landscape that we were in a different kind of camp. There were hardly any trees, almost no wildlife, and miles of dirt. When Corbin pointed out a single impala to the right and slowed his jeep down, we told him to keep going. “We’re over impalas,” I explained. “They’ve turned into deer for us. You don’t need to slow down.”
“Aha! I was warned from Camp Londolozi that you girls don’t mess around,” he guffawed, as spit shot out of one of the crevices in his lip onto the steering wheel.
“Ugh,” Hannah groaned. “GROSS!”
“Speaking of deer, Chelsea, why don’t you tell Corbin about the time you hit a deer?” Molly suggested, trying to lighten things up.
“Ugh, I hate talking about that, but I will.” I tapped Corbin on the shoulder. “Do you guys have Rollerblades in South Africa?” Before he had time to answer, I told him, “It was a foggy Tuesday night in May, and I was into my own rhythm and feeling the beat of the drum, and before I knew it, a deer popped right out of the woods and struck me down.”
“Did you not see it coming?” Corbin asked, whipping his lips into profile.
“I did not. On blades, I can get up to sixty-five miles an hour. I ended up with just a couple of scratches, and I was lucky enough to be wearing a helmet. The deer, on the other hand, wasn’t so lucky. He passed later that night.”
“When she Rollerblades, it’s like she’s in another world,” Sue told him. “By the way, Corbin, we met triplets at Camp Londolozi who said they just came from here. Did you pick them up as well?”
“Ahhh! Yes. Yes, I did. Those girls were a riot—I really loved them.”
“A riot?” I asked. “How so?”
“They were just so funny, they had me laughing and laughing!”
“We didn’t find them funny at all,” Sue interrupted.
“Well,” he said, ignoring her comment and changing the subject, “I’m going to drop you off at your villa so you can freshen up and relax, and we’ll be by at half past four to pick you up for the elephants.”
“What makes you think we need to freshen up?” I inquired, well aware that I was on my sixth day of not-showering.
He ignored my question, too, and informed us he’d be dropping us off with Norman, our “escort” at Camp Dumbo.
He pulled up to our villa where we met Norman, a shorter, grosser version of Corbin, if that was possible. Norman had beyond-seven-layer-dip lips. He looked like a warthog, and in what was becoming typical South African style, he also had one dead tooth. Perhaps he and Rex were distant cousins. He wore safari shorts that stopped a foot and a half above his knee, and he had the handshake of a warthog after being assaulted by a water balloon.
“Do those shorts hurt?” Hannah asked as she picked her ear and walked inside. I felt sorry for Norman, and I felt bad for him having to meet us. I also felt bad for myself, realizing I had completely forgotten to pack my clothes when we left Londolozi. I remember seeing my clothes, deciding I’d rather not deal with them, and secretly hoping Molly or Shelly would mistake them for their own and pack them. This is my usual operating procedure, and I’ve had over a 90 percent success rate.
Our villa was covered in mounted elephant heads, antelope tusks, and stuffed hyenas, with elephant dung on the walls doubling as wallpaper. It was spacious, with a wraparound balcony and two bedrooms connected by a living and dining area. This allowed the six of us to sleep in the same quarters for the first time on this trip. We were supposed to stay there for four days, but after meeting Corbin and Norman, I knew four days would be a long shot.
Norman gave us walking directions to the main lodge if we wanted to grab a bite to eat before our elephant ride. We were to make a hard right out of our villa and follow a stone path that would lead to signs to the main lodge. In doing so, we crossed a gangplank that was suspended over ten feet of dirt and led to a lodge shaped like a pirate ship. It felt like we were on a ropes course, and I decided to be the first one to acknowledge it.
“This camp is like the Best Western version of Arabian Nights. All we’re missing are some gorilla rings and a balance beam.”
“I feel like we’re going to need 3-D glasses,” Molly added.
Norman was waiting for us in the dining room when we entered the main lodge. Why he made us walk a quarter of a mile in ninety-degree heat when he was going to the same place made no sense at all. It dawned on me that Norman was under the impression that the gangplank/drawbridge was one of their main attractions. If that was the case, we were in big trouble.