The Cave

The movement of the water around me echoes the catacomb walls as my panicky hands grapple for the errant regulator caught on top of my tank. I duck below the water trying to loosen the hose but it remains caught. I resurface and call out to the others to wait but they have all started their descent and are already below the water. The cave darkens as I reach for my secondary regulator and deflate my BCD. The last of the torch light disappears under a ledge below me. I am now descending in complete darkness.

My fins hit the rocks on the cave floor as my eyes try to adjust to the irrational darkness. I can’t see the opening, I can’t see anything. I dare not attempt to follow. Even if I could feel my way to the entrance of the cave chamber, without a torch I’d most certainly get lost in the tunnels leading to the outside ocean. I sit there for a minute or two before resurfacing. Alone, floating in the darkness of the cave.

Minutes ago I bobbed in this spot. Rising and falling with the swell, watching the torch lights attach themselves to stalactites as divers scan the inside of the dome. In this pocket of air we were free to talk, to explore, to marvel at the water mirroring blue tinsel across the rocky cupola and casting its ripple of shadows.

I had no hesitation when one of the divers asked to lend my torch. Brad, my kiwi dive buddy left his torch on the boat by mistake and was keen to inspect a coconut crab scaling the rocky wall more closely. Obviously caught in the excitement he failed to bring it back. A point I could have lived with if my regulator hose had not become tangled.

They would be almost out of the tunnel by now; emerging from the mouth of the rocky cavern that swallowed them half an hour before. They would be passing schools of squirrel fish and sweeper fish, maybe even occasioning a banded sea snake. Between equalisations they would be hearing the sweet song of the Humpback whales, their eyes coin-like in wonder.

The tide fills and drops the level in the cave as I sit there in the water alone in the darkness. Entombed. I pull the regulator from my mouth. I need to save my air for when I finally get out of here. The sound of my heightened breathing is disconcerting as it amplifies off the blackened walls.

I wonder how often a group dives this cave? How long could I be trapped here?Hopefully the excitement of the dive does not overpower the Dive Master’s sensibilities that the boat is returning one short. Perhaps Brad will remember his buddy when he finds he has two torches on the boat.

Until someone returns I will wait here in the darkness. Waiting on a light to appear from somewhere below. Waiting and spinning sinister speculations on my fate.

The Pofadder

We start on our afternoon walking safari through the Okavango Delta, the sun still hanging high in the sky. A light breeze occasions our sweaty skin providing a momentary reprieve to the oppressive heat. The dry open fields of bush and savannah grassland framed by fingers of delta water carving through the dryness.

Ahead of us an unsuspecting Pofadder basks in the sun, camouflaging itself in the dryness of the grass. Bitis arietans, is a particularly aggressive biter and is answerable for more fatalities than any other snake in Africa. Preferring to bite rather than avoid confrontation it releases a cytotoxin venom, which in the remoteness of the Delta is likely to result in a best case scenario of the victim losing the limb this viper strikes.

We head out along a thin trail carved by animals through the savannah grass. Master, a member of the local Bayei Tribe and expert tracker in the Delta helping me lead the group. He has been training me to track animals through the bush, to decipher the subtle notes of broken twigs and tracks. I recall my many failed attempts when I started this training. At each track in the dirt he would point.

“Wildebeest?” I would look at him like a student eager to please his teacher

“No Robbo”

Hartebeast?”

“No”

A sounder of warthogs run by, tails in the air as a guide to the scurrying suckers following an impatient mum. The babble of the Delta waterways close by, keeping inconsistent time, occasioned by a stirring bush. The whisper of the breeze through the Mopani trees only interrupted by the coos of tourists spotting something big in the distance.

Our group stops momentarily to observe a cohort of zebra grazing across the expanse. No fences, no vehicles, in a line we pause to appreciate the wildness of it all before starting out again. We try to keep our footfall light on the dusty track, eyes keenly scanning the scene for hints of wild in the dry savannah.

The Pofadder ahead recoils, ready to strike.

Overhead the shrill and ominous cries of an African Fish Eagle, the sound of the African wild, signals the danger unfolding. The grass reaches up, slowing our steps, pulling us at our legs in an attempt to prevent our path to the wickedness ahead. But a sinister trap had already been laid and we were about to be under attack.

The Pofadder strikes. Silently, swiftly. I saw nothing, heard nothing, only the barking and high pitched braying of the zebra as two long fangs inject a venomous cocktail deep into the fleshy skin. The victim jumps back in a terrifying and futile panic. Kicking out as the Pofadder recoils, resets, pausing as the heavy feet of our group push up the trail.

Again the Pofadder strikes. A new victim now. Master and I turn to see the terror in her eyes as the serpents powerful thrust sends frantic and repeated blows to the ankle of one of my female passengers.

This second attack however was thwarted. The Pofadder’s mouth was still full of frog. Its first victim kicking, sheathing the viper’s fangs. The girl jumps away with a shriek and the Pofadder retreats back into obscurity in the grass.

Our hearts race frantic. We stand there all scanning the ground for further terror before composing ourselves to continue cautiously forward. A close escape. Fortunately for us, not so fortunate was the poor frog.