Angela Trowell

Christina was with Tom in his safari camp the week before Christmas 1972. The occasion stands out vividly among all the rest.

There are four other guests and they have just returned from a sunrise walk in the bush – a bundu walk. The smell of bacon and coffee fills the air and they're starving.

The guests take their time after breakfast. They're not eager to leave. Christina sits at the rough-hewn table, outwardly quiet, inwardly impatient for them to leave. Tom's been studying the horizon. He tells the guests that a storm is brewing and finally they pack up their cars and go. At last, they are alone.

It's mid-afternoon when the storm rolls in. The rain pelts down in sheets, thunder roars out the wrath of Thor and the sky is lit by flash after flash of celestial fire. It's the kind of storm that propels Christina into a state of wild exuberance. She becomes possessed, an instrument of the Rain God. She rushes into the furor, whirling, twirling, writhing in a feverish dance. The more she dances, the more exhilarated she becomes.

She throws back her head and drinks in the rain. It flattens her hair and pours down her body, turning her shirt into a second skin. She sings to the sky and bends to inhale the soaked earth. She pulls Tom to his feet and they dance together, whirling and stamping and singing and clinging together in the force of the storm, until their knees buckle and they stagger into Tom's tent to finish the dance.

They wake to the sweet smell of the rain-drenched earth and the lubricious songs of birds and the haze of flying ants freshly released from their warm, damp, earth-womb.
They watch the sun rise on a morning washed and flushed with innocence.

The ancient spirits have been constant observers. Now they agree to hover close to this young woman who is so much part of the land. They can read her thoughts, and when necessary, they will give them a little shove in the direction they deem best.
Tom is closing his camp for the rainy season. His camp assistants are starting to pack up the tents and equipment. He makes a fire and Christina cooks bacon and eggs for them all.

Tom tunes in his transistor radio and adjusts the aerial so they can hear the news.
The announcer is calm. The headline is grim.

A farm was attacked and burned down in the night. A whole family died. The flames lit the night, scorching it scarlet, and sparks flew like bloodied spears into the black heavens.

“It's starting,” Tom says softly. “So far, we've merely seen the skirmishes. The guerrilla leaders have patched up their differences and are pulling together. Fires will light up all over the veld.”