Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
would have done her mother. I stood and turned around. As I did, the boys scuttled off, just
as quickly as the vervet's mother.
'Lev, you're not serious. She won't last an hour without . . .'
'Bring me some water, Boston.'
Boston glared.
'Boston, some water!'
After I had bathed her head and helped her drink some water from the cup of my hand,
we picked our way back to the river and resumed our trek. Though she clung to me fiercely,
it was obvious the stress of the situation had affected the vervet; soon, her screeching had
faded to silence, and her head began to loll. Stopping to offer her more water, we picked
our way north. At least the fires had not yet reached this part of the river and, for sever-
al kilometres, it was possible to believe we were back in Rwanda or Tanzania, where the
bush remained wild and, in most areas, unplundered.
By nightfall we had made it to the village of Baale and, instead of our usual dilapidated
shack, we were able to find a guesthouse. There were supplies in the village and, as well
as soft fruit, we were able to find fresh milk. Holed up in the guesthouse, I gently roused
the vervet and fed her a soft paste mixed from what we had bought. She began to perk up
- until, after an hour or so, her screeching started again. Another hour later, her digestive
system seemed to be back in working order - and Boston was fuming as he crouched in
the corner of the room, making a simple nappy out of torn pieces of an old shirt.
'What will you do with it, Lev?' he grunted as, with the lights out, we listened to its
mewling.
'We'll find
her
a home,' I said. My mother had worked with monkeys in South Africa
and I knew there were sanctuaries all over the continent where a tiny thing like this could
be reared and, potentially, even reintroduced to the wild.
'When?' Boston was only angry because, as he tried to sleep, the vervet was clambering
all over his face.
'Soon,' I said. 'As soon as we can.'
But, right now, I had to admit I was even glad for the company of somebody - or
something - who wouldn't always be launching into some new tirade at the turning of
every mile.
'I think I'm going to call her Florence,' I said, 'after Samuel Baker's wife. He rescued
her from captivity too.'
But Boston wasn't listening. For the time being, there were going to be three of us on
this trek.
North of Baale, we followed the river for another hard day, along a dirt red track that ran
parallel to the water. The road seemed endless, sparse and unpopulated, the indigenous
