Tanzania: The Accidental Poacher (cont.)

Phase 4: Finally manage to mortally wound an impala in one shot. Whoop for joy at salvaged masculinity.

Phase 5: Stuff bloody corpse into trunk and recount exploits with mounting megalomania.

Fast forward to 10 PM, as this is when we finally reach Eric’s farm, which I had begun to believe was a figment of everyone’s imagination. We put the impala on display outside the farm. Its eyes are unnaturally wide, likely due to the fact that it could no longer close them. It looks beautiful and grotesque, its head askew, its legs crumpled. I wish we had let it be. And at this point I’m not clear on why we killed it to begin with since we are having goat for dinner; but being here for months, I’m becoming accustomed to the gaping holes in my comprehension; and I’m too tired and hungry to argue.

After chewing and gnawing on the tough stringy goat meat, some watching of South African music television (via satellite, naturally), and a spontaneous group nap, we hop back in the Land Cruiser. The now-skinned impala goes back in the trunk, covered with a blanket. It smells, but I don’t care. It is becoming painfully apparent that I won't be home until the wee hours of the morning. It's unlikely I'll scrape together more than an hour of sleep, in preparation for my full day of teaching Swahili and math lessons. I manage to sleep fitfully in the car for most of the return trip, only to be awakened by urgent hissing from the front seat.

"What’s going on?" I ask, startled.

"Someone needs to sit on the swala when we pass the checkpoint."

"Why?"

"Because if they catch us poaching it, they’ll make us eat it raw."

Poaching? This word is exotic anathema to Western environmentalists, and I gape at my Tanzanian friends, heart pounding. How could we be poachers? Why didn’t I figure this out before? William and the others nod solemnly and lower themselves gingerly onto the blanketed meat, hiding it from view, hoping the blood doesn’t seep through onto their pants.

I can’t believe it. I am a poacher, or at least a poacher’s accomplice, like the unscrupulous henchmen in Gorillas in the Mist. Oh, I hope we don’t get caught. What will we do? I don’t want to eat raw impala!

In an anticlimactic turn of events, my fight-or-flight instinct turns out to be unnecessary, and adrenaline merely makes my limbs tremble uncontrollably. We are not even stopped at the checkpoint. Nevertheless, I can’t sleep for the rest of the return trip. Me, a poacher? My whole life I had wanted to be a wildlife ecologist. This was like running for office with a history of drug use and DUI’s.

We reach my house at 7 AM. Right on time. I begin to root around for another set of clothes, and I splash some water on my face since I don’t have time to sleep before going to school. I turn to the door at the sound of Eric clearing his throat penitently at the door. He looks sheepish, and his arms are filled with the muscled haunch of the former impala.

"Sorry we got you back so late," he mumbles, thrusting the leg at me. "You can have this if you want." I thank him; although after imagining being forced to rip raw swala meat off the bone with my teeth, the last thing I want to do is eat it, even cooked. But I don’t have enough energy to be upset. He shuffles off, and I spend a few minutes with my friends trying to shove the leg into our mini-fridge. We have to tape the door shut in order to make it fit.

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