Fear Factor

Anna and I decided to stay the night in a tree-house banda about a half kilometer back into the forest at the chimp camp. I was excited. Who wouldn’t want to stay in a tree-house in the jungle? And I must admit, just about every crazy-assed thing I do in the third world, I think, "Oh well, it'll make a good blog." This was no exception. As we were bing led back to see our tree-house, about five steps in on the trail, the park ranger ahead of us stopped dead in his tracks, causing one of those comical four person pile ups. I looked up and heard him say only: “Snake.”

Now let’s pause here for a moment, and refresh the fact that I despise snakes. Granted I tend to exaggerate my hatred, but nevertheless, I have no love lost for poisonous serpents. I just wanted to point out that my sister and two park rangers at Kibole National Park, can attest, under oath, that I did not, in fact, scream like a little girl.

I was however, frozen in place. Next thing I know, Mark, the ranger, has jumped behind us! Leaving us facing the long black form, slithering into the woods. I guess he was more scared than we were. Thankfully, the business end was already in the bushes. Just when I was thinking, “That wasn’t so bad,” from over my shoulder, Mark says, “Black Mamba,” in an ominous ghost-story kind of way. My heart skipped four beats as I glanced back down at the most poisonous snake in Africa. Helpfully, Mark says, “Don’t tamper with it,” as if I was going to start poking it and swinging it around by the tail. It made its way into the woods, and I was about to quickly stride by, when the rangers discussed and decided that we should go around by a different trail. I was fine with this. Along the way I tried to break the ice and said, “So, if he bites me Mark, you will take care of me right?” Mark just laughed. I expected him to say something comforting but he didn’t. I stopped and looked at him, until he said, “Sir, Black Mamba is serious poison… you would die.” Oh excellent. These guys have a few things to learn about tourism.

So we made our way around by a different trail which abruptly ended. Mark turned to us and said in his ghost story voice, “And now, we enter the woods.” He pushed aside a few branches and revealed a small, dark trail. I turned to my sister, and flashed the Ford family “What in the hell?” look. After seeing a Black Mamba the last thing I want to start doing is bush-whacking our way through the jungle. But we made it through, and in to our tree-house. As Mark was leaving he said, “Oh, I hope you can find you’re way back.” Yeah, me too Mark, me too.

After unpacking, we forced ourselves back along the trail, hearts beating in our throats. I knew we had to conquer Black Mamba Avenue, or we would be screwed for the whole weekend. I yelled out, “Heellllloooo Snakes! It’s just me… coming through… Okay?” My sister flashed me the Ford Family, “Shut the $%^% up” look. We made it through back to the base camp, where J.B., who ended up being our chimp guide the next day, said with a hearty laugh, “Ahh, so I hear our friend Mamba has welcomed you.”

Hahahahahah, yeah, that’s right J.B.… shut it.