Under direct orders from Hazel Brown… the short layover between Harare (HRE) and the next 45-minute hop to Kariba (KAB) was filled with Winifred Dixie explaining to the entirety of Team Eagle the hazards that lie ahead. Sage Golden was now on everyone’s radar… along with Nyami Nyami.
Ron Heimburg was the first to break silence when Win finished her eye-opening declaration. “One million dollars spent and I’ve got myself in a lethal jackpot. I suppose it’s too late to cancel out and retain my entry fee—maybe not get killed in Africa.”
“Ron, you need to calm down and trust me,” responded Sally. “As far as Sage goes… I can phone HQ if we need more assistance—but odds are highly unlikely we will need it. And the whole snake-headed dragon-monster thing? Never a believer in Peter Pan.”
I wouldn’t take those odds to Vegas, thought Win as she sat and reflected out the window of the plane. Sally could easily be wrong on both counts.
Ladies and gentlemen, we have been Cleared For Landing. Please buckle in as we descend into (KAB), was the message from the cockpit. We hope you have found our services comforting, and best of luck with the Kariba International Tiger Fish Tournament.
“Ha! Luck is for losers,” stated an overly confident Jackie Loonsuckle. “What is it again… what do we have to do to win this fishing derby?”
“Well, for one… it’s definitely not a derby, Jackie,” corrected Win as she turned to face the overly confident Montana fly-bum. “This is the highest profile fishing contest in the Eastern Hemisphere. Please treat it as such.”
“Thanks for clarification, Win. And while we’re talking about the fishing tournament, why don’t you enlighten us with some details,” encouraged Sally.
“Well, I think you guys know the basics… three-day tourney… 6:00am shotgun start…”
“Please, do we have to reference guns?” Ron interrupted. “It seems to be a general theme with this group I’ve attached myself to.”
“Ok, sure,” replied Win. “Blast-off.”
Then she continued: The KITFT (Kariba International Tiger Fish Tournament) is anchored on the eastern shore of Lake Kariba, just east of Kariba Town. This is within the Charara Safari Area. Each morning to start the contest a flare is fired from Charara Point to signal takeoff.
We have four team members, obviously. Plus, myself as the guide, and driver of the boat. Also—watch for crocodiles in the harbor area—the departure site. And just so everyone is aware, the lake itself has fifteen to twenty thousand of the toothy critters roaming about.
“TWENTY THOUSAND!” burst Ron Heimburg while he swallowed hard and blinked profusely with a tear running down his cheek. Then Win continued—but she was not the only one talking.
Back at FSFO, Celine was in the pantry talking to no one in particular (possibly her own demons), spinning in circles, and chasing down ingredients for the camp’s evening dinner. Tonight’s mystery feature was going to be smoked groundhog ribs.
Earlier in the week, Minister Nev had live-trapped an entire family of grizzled varmints at the local parish in Jackfish. They had burrowed their way to China when three petite Sunday School children accidentally disappeared into their entrance. For safety concerns it was deemed necessary to relocate the critters before more children were endangered, and the entirety of the church foundation destroyed.
Next… Neville… being the stout Christian that he was… refused to sentence the excavating buggers to death. Instead, he opted to relocate them to the wilds of Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters.
Ultimately, it was Celine who took advantage of the opportunity. Three days after their arrival on the island, on a looming overcast day, she nonchalantly caught the clan inspecting her garden. This prompted her to chase down each individual member—whack them over the head with a shiny spade—send them to their promised land of rodents—and finally to her boiling stock pot on top of the kitchen stove.
“Paprika? No, that’s not it. I need Cayenne… oh what the hell, let’s do both,” Celine said aloud. “Now, where’s that Mugwort I brought from home? Something to give those devilish tourists some psychic vision. Oh… there it is… right next to the Nutmeg. Hmmmm… too much? I think not! Nutmeg and Mugwort—get their heartbeats up and their dreams floating.”
“Hey, Celine, is that you back there?” It was Rusty Flathers entering the kitchen in search of his witchy chef. When she did not immediately respond he asked, “Hey, are you suitably dressed?” Too many weirdly indecent exposures had him gun-shy and asking for permission to enter a room where meals were regularly prepped.
“Yes! Sir Rustabaga! I’m back here—fully clothed—unfortunately! He-he-he-he-he.” Then she met Rusty in the utility area of the kitchen she asked, “What’s up, boss man?”
“Oh, I just wanted to let you know that I’m taking Ellie out fishing for a couple of hours. So, if you’re…”
“Fishing? HA!” she replied. “Is that what we’re calling it now. C’mon Rust-Bucket, you can do better than that!”
“I’m serious, Celine.” Rusty said with a firmed-up tone.
“Me too. How do you think my Aunt Marie-Claire ended up with twins? It certainly wasn’t caused by the three-hook nightcrawler harness she and her boyfriend were pulling round Lake Saint Virgin—no sirree. Why just the other day I was telling Minister Nev, during one of our confessionary moments, that maybe he and I should be doing more fishing. You know the Disciples—Peter, Andrew, James, John—they were good fishermen. So Russickle, if you want to go out there and cast your net, I say go for it!”
“Celine, I gotta go,” said Rusty as he began backtracking out of the kitchen.
“Ok, but wait, I need to you test the braising liquid in this pot—please—before you go.”
“Sure,” Rusty responded, grabbing a wooden ladle from a quart jar sitting on the shelve above the stove. “What are you boiling up?” he asked before inhaling a mouthful.
“Oh, it’s a non-GMO delicacy. Something I came up with, combing the rock piles near the countryside of Quebec City. The technical name is Marmota monax.”
“Well, whatever it is, it’s fantastic,” replied Rusty as he took another overly large gulp, dropped the spoon in the sink, and headed for the door. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
Marmota monax, Rusty said to himself as he skipped down the dock, Marmota monax.
In the harbor… Ellie waited in the boat. On shore… Link declined the invitation to fish and stewed under a shade tree. Rusty continued happily down the length of the dock wondering, Is Marmota monax French?
“Hey, Ellie—have you ever heard of Marmota monax? Celine is up there working on a crazy-delicious blend for tonight’s entre’.”
“Um… yeah, Rusty… that’s the Latin phase for GROUNDHOG. Like the ones that dig huge holes in the ground,” she replied.
Immediately, Rusty’s eyes bulged and his face turned ghostly white. Then his saliva glands ran like a roaring river. It took several minutes for the projectile vomiting to cease, and he was certain there would be bruises on his ab muscles leaning over the side of the gunnel. Link remained on his back, under the shaded tree nearest the lodge, his belly bursting with laughter.
Of no laughing matter where the number of crocodiles inhabiting Lake Kariba in Zimbabwe. Pre-fishing for Team Eagle was scheduled to start at 0-dark-thirty tomorrow morning, and other than Winifred Dixie (allegedly) no one in the party had ever boated a tiger fish in their entire angling careers. Our fearless leader Sally Squatsnfishes, after being briefed on her peer Sage Golden and Nyami Nyami, was far less concerned about killing fish.
“Hey, Team,” Sally said as the plane landed and she stood to prepare for exit. “Let’s be careful out there.” Then the main cabin door opened to the outside world and briefly everyone on board heard a low moaning grumble, just before the ground vibrated and shook the feet of the plane. Then Sally panned the eyes of her mates… only Hazel refused to make eye contact.
–To Be Continued—
Rusty Flathers 