A sharp tug announced the take of a 'Chessa,' probably the finest small game fish in the world. Up to six pounds of hard muscle covered with a coat of tough silver scales and backed up by a big, businesslike tail, the fish endures a life of strong currents all the while avoiding the vicious teeth of the tiger fish; making for a very fit wily opponent.
For the last ten years James had worked on computer projects all over the world; spending much of his spare time fishing for salmon trout and other game fish. Pound for pound, none could compete with the sheer endurance, tenacity, and power of the Chessa.
After a brief entanglement in submerged twigs the fish headed for open water. The taut line skimmed and whined as the fish dragged it tirelessly, first upstream then down, and then up again.
James gradually worked his line further and further away from the tree, hoping a big tiger fish wouldn’t attack the exposed Chessa but, at the same time, not wanting to lose it in the mass of branches below the surface.
He finally landed the fish by dragging it firmly onto the sand. With a deft wrist motion, he extracted the barbless hook and gently returned the dazed fish to the river. It drifted for a second, stunned, and then swam away enthusiastically, none the worse for wear. He never killed a fish unless he intended to eat it, and Chessa were far too bony.
James maintained peak physical fitness by running six miles almost every day, usually inside the compound. Whenever he had the opportunity, mostly on weekends, he ran along the river outside the fence. Today he hid his bag and rod in a thorny shrub and set off upstream, moving in a wide arc around the browsing hippo. To attempt to pass between it and the river was inviting disaster; if the animal was disturbed it would charge toward the water, flattening anything in its path.His route took him close to the jungle where the gully was shallower and further from the water. After struggling through acacia bushes bristling with vicious two inch white thorns, and sharp spiky reeds, he re-appeared on the other side, his deeply-tanned, muscular torso blending naturally with the autumn grasses.
Once clear of the reeds he broke into a steady lope, cutting back gradually toward the river. Although it was just after seven o’clock, the sun was already fierce, warming his shoulders as he followed sandy paths left by countless wild animals.
By the time he reached a small beach three miles from the hippo he was drenched in perspiration. He scanned the river carefully for dangerous inhabitants then filled his hat with water and doused himself a few times to cool off before languishing in the shade of a thick shrub.
Just as he was about to head back he noticed a small native next to the water a hundred yards upstream. He was cleaning what looked like fish on a log at the edge of the water so James went to see what he’d caught.
The man was very short and wiry, probably a pygmy from the Mbuti tribes of the northeast border regions. They rarely ventured into the lowlands, preferring cooler montane habitat. James guessed he had been driven out by the war, possibly even from Rwanda two hundred miles to the east. The pygmies are a peaceful people, often victims of the larger, more warlike tribes.
Oblivious to James’s presence, he sang a repetitive lilting song softly to himself. James stood on the bank admiring how skillfully the man cleaned the fish with his homemade knife.
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye James noticed a long dark shadow, gliding silently just beneath the surface of the river thirty yards away, toward the pigmy. James was high on the bank and could see it clearly, but the sunlight reflecting off the water in the direction of the approaching crocodile blinded the pygmy.
It must have been twenty feet long; its stealthy approach meant it clearly intended to eat the little man. Using the current to its advantage, it purposefully turned in a wide arc and, without causing a ripple, faced the pygmy; ready for its final lightning dash.
Crocodiles are notoriously cunning, preferring to sneak as close as possible before attacking. A full grown one can approach its prey undetected in a foot of water.
There was no time to warn the pygmy, especially in an unknown language. Alarming a bushman armed with a blow-pipe and poisoned darts was very risky; he would probably attack without hesitation. James quickly grabbed a four-foot piece of driftwood from the sand, carefully calculated the distance, and tossed it high over the pygmy, right onto the cruising monster.
The pygmy saw the reflection of the log flying over his head and instinctively crouched. It landed with a loud splash on the crocodile’s hard, scaly back. The croc got a bigger fright than the bushman and lunged vertically out of the water, twisting violently around in a desperate attempt to get to deeper water. In an instant it towered eight feet above the surface, massive jaws open wide in a guttural roar as it snapped at James’s log before vanishing into the depths.
The terrifying sight of a ton of man-eating crocodile so close to him was too much for the diminutive forest dweller. His eyes rolled back and a spine-chilling wail rent the air as he abandoned his possessions and flew up the twelve-foot bank.
When he saw James, his mind worked frantically to sort the events of the last few seconds. When he realized James had thrown the log and saved his life, he fell to the ground jabbering what was probably eternal gratitude. Some African tribes believe the ‘Garwe’ is sent by the devil himself, and being eaten by one guarantees an afterlife of indescribable torment.
All the while muttering and jabbering, he pointed to the sun, rubbed his heart with a circular motion of his hand and patted the ground repeatedly, his eyes rolled vigorously between heaven and earth.
Eventually he settled somewhat. He fumbled with his necklace and proffered it; a token James felt quite unnecessary and tried to decline. When he saw the genuine concern on the pygmy’s face he knew he’d breached jungle-protocol. He held out his hand and accepted the gift solemnly, admiring its intricate beadwork.
The pygmy smiled, happy that his gesture, though small in the light of his rescue from certain death, was appreciated. He approached the water with caution, retrieved his fish and knife and then, without further delay, trotted off toward the jungle. Every few paces he turned and waved respectfully to James until he vanished into the damp green darkness, the giant, evergreen leaves closed behind him.
It was too late for a fish-breakfast so James broke into a fast run back to the compound, stopping briefly to collect his gear. He didn’t relish being caught outside the fence and having to explain himself to the security staff who would probably be outraged at his breach of base security.
Near the gate, he heard the chugging engine of a vegetable-delivery boat rounding the bend. The vendor plied the river daily in his ‘banana-boat’; selling vegetables and fruit and sometimes trading these for other goods such as honey or small wild animals. Orion had its own orchards and vegetable gardens but occasionally the catering staff supplemented these with goods from the natives.
The yellow boat looked like a huge fiberglass banana, about forty feet long, four wide, and propelled by a small, inboard diesel engine. James waved to the driver who waved back, his white teeth contrasting sharply with his very black face. James had met Mchenga once before but didn’t know if this was his first name or last name.
Mchenga gestured with his hands, enquiring if James had caught anything. James raised five fingers then pretended to throw them back. Mchenga scowled playfully; he would have eaten the fish. The boat chugged slowly upstream to unknown destinations that James would love to explore. Mchenga’s loud singing gradually faded around the bend.
Just as James closed the gate behind him he was startled by an announcement on the public address system. The pole-mounted loudspeakers situated all over the compound were rarely used. The last time was a year ago when the site was evacuated due to an electrical short in the underground liquid-rocket-fuel store. Fortunately, the automatic isolation systems functioned correctly, and prevented disaster.
The speakers