“Hannah, you’ve really managed to pull your shit together,” Shelly told her. “That must have been a great massage.” Then she turned to Simone. “Will you pass me one of the margarita bottles?”
Simone told the pilot we were going to need some cups.
“There are paper ones in the back and plastic up here in the front. Plastic has less give and is generally better for urine.”
My head spun around at his directness. “Are you single?” Then I nudged Sue and asked, “Who comes to the AIDS capital of the world without condoms?”
“You have the weed, right?” Molly asked Sue.
“I do,” Hannah announced.
Notwithstanding Camp Dumbo, Africa was turning into a hotbed of sexual tension.
There are no other pictures from this trip for legal reasons.
CHAPTER 4
REJECTION IN BOTSWANA
Rex was standing outside the airport in khakis and a T-shirt, when we landed at yet another South African airport. He looked different out of his safari gear, which was neither here nor there, but he was wearing flip-flops, and I prefer that men don’t do that. He was standing next to our South African airport greeter, also wearing flip-flops.
“Look who’s here!” I screamed as we got off the plane. “Rexy!” the six of us yelled as we ran over and tackled him on the tarmac. We were elated and drunk on love. He was as happy as we were, and there was no denying it.
The airport in South Africa that was our waystation to Botswana was the size of an El Pollo Loco and had eight gates in total. There was a little shopping area and the airport’s most important feature—a full bar, which was where we all hightailed it to reload our drinks.
A single man was in charge of the security check, and when he saw our two thermoses, he told us we were not allowed to board the plane to Botswana with any liquids. The girls all looked to me.
“I have diabetes,” I told him, holding up my right wrist in a statement of Black Power, and also because I presumed a closed fist was the current symbol for diabetes. “Type two.” The girls and Rex kept their heads during this exchange.
“Okay,” the man said, with a confused look on his face. “Come on through.”
Once inside the gate, we gleaned that once again we would be the only ones on the plane. Sue reminded us that we had hogged all the alcohol and that she and Simone were dead sober. “I’m going outside to smoke a cigarette,” she said, using air quotes.
Simone was the first one behind her, and we all followed suit. I informed the man at security that although we had already been through security, we needed some air. In order to avoid repeating our previous conversation, I told him, “We’ll leave our thermoses here and be back in time for the flight. Please make sure no one touches my juice.”
Our greeter led us outside to the front of the airport, which was on the opposite side of where we landed. There was a medium-sized parking lot in front of us. Sue took out two American Spirits, handed one to Molly, and motioned for her to go distract our airport assistant while we smoked the pure African ganja.
Somehow, on the plane ride Molly had become more intoxicated than I had seen her on the entire trip, and it was pretty fantastic. Being that she’s a bigger girl, it’s harder for her to get drunk, but when she does it is well worth the wait. Like an elephant trumpeting, her body will swing in several different directions, and if you are in her line of fire, there’s a chance you could lose your life.
Molly went over to divert the man’s attention, and this was what I overheard: “Oh my goodness, are all these cars here for flights?” She waved her hands around wildly, making one asinine observation after another about the air traffic control towers in South Africa as compared to the ones in Los Angeles.
After Sue took a hit off her cigarette, we realized we had the real cigarette and Molly had taken the marijuana cigarette. She was ten feet away and exhaling smoke into the man’s face while gesticulating like one of those guys with the glow sticks who direct planes where to park once they’ve landed.
Simone went over to Molly to retrieve the cigarette and had to struggle to get it out of her hands. Once she did, she glared at Molly and walked back over to us while taking a huge hit. “I’m too sober for this shit,” she exhaled.
We all shared the joint, then headed back into the airport, where Hannah bought some more souvenirs for her nephews—one clay elephant and one clay rhino. I mean, who really gives a shit? The rest of us went to our gate, where Rex revealed to us that he had brought each one of us extra ChapSticks.
“Oh, Rex!” we all cried and mounted him again. Our little plane had arrived and was loaded with ice and champagne. Things could not have gotten any better.
Camp Vurumba is located in the Okavango Delta. It was very different from Londolozai and Camp Dumbo, and in a great way. The camp was engulfed by the delta, which meant we had to drive through what was essentially a swamp, but it was exponentially more beautiful than a swamp and almost otherworldly. There were elephants and hippos in the distance sloshing through the water, and there were lily pads and papyri; everywhere.
Rex sat in the front of the jeep to bond with Z, who would be our guide in Botswana. Z was the best. He was happy and bald and had a great sense of humor—and he had only one wife, so I trusted him.
That’s Simone behind Rex and Hannah behind me, after shouting: “I don’t want to be in any pictures.”
We arrived at Vurumba at lunchtime, where the staff revealed to us that there was an open bar policy and we would be helping ourselves to our own drinks. They had gotten calls from both Londolozi and Camp Dumbo, and they were told that it was in everyone’s best interest for us to be overserved.
“Is that true?” Hannah asked, appalled.
“We’re like men,” I declared. “Gross Russian men who can’t even fit into regular clothes.”
“The only good thing about Russians is their salad dressing,” Hannah whispered to no one in particular.
“They give all the camps a VIP list,” Rex informed us, trying to allay our paranoia.
“Do you guys even get E! here?” Hannah inquired.
“I don’t know, I don’t watch much telly,” Rex replied. “But we knew we had a celebrity coming.”
“Are we worse than Russians?” I asked Z. “Be honest.”
“No, no, of course not,” he reassured us. “They just called and told us that all you ladies care about are lip balm and margaritas.”
“We also like champagne and Bloody Marys,” Sue corrected him.
“We all get a VIP list that describes the type of guest who is coming and what we can expect,” Rex explained.
“Did the list go something like this?” Sue asked in her singsong tone. “One VIP who needs a constant alcohol drip who travels with a power lesbian who also needs a constant alcohol drip. Both love to complain, but lesbian VIP complains more to make celebrity VIP look more reasonable.”
“It said there was a mixed group of affluent women who like to drink,” Z told us with a smile.
“Affluent?” Hannah asked.
“That’s a nice way of saying you have money,” Sue said, looking at me.
“Thanks for the hot tip, Sue, but why would they say ‘mixed’? It’s not like we’re multicultural, or… are they referring to Shelly’s lesbianism?”
“Your show is on the E! network,” Sue reminded me. “You’re sharing the spotlight with Coco, Ice T, and all the beautiful Kardashians. If that’s not multicultural, I don’t know what is.”
“I would call it more transcontinental,” Hannah weighed in, laughing at her own joke.
“Is it Ice T, or Iced T?” Molly asked.