I blame it on Irene. Today is Irene’s birthday, so of course Africa had to give her a gift. Irene is from Denmark and, as a product of her upbringing, she has developed a list of things she would like to see—and photograph—as proof and remembrance of her visit here. Snake is on the list. There are very few snakes in Denmark. Therefore, Irene doesn’t have a full appreciation of snake-ness. Personally, I would be extremely content to never see another snake for as long as I live.
I was in the lead acting as guide because I had walked part of the trail on the top of Zomba Mountain before and it was new to everyone else. There were five of us walking happily along. I was talking with Raquel, the nurse from Brazil, though I cannot for the life of me remember what we were talking about. (At this point I must note that I am glad I am a loud person. Snakes do not like loud people.) In mid-sentence I’m sure, we both stopped walking shocked at the three foot ribbon of bright green across our path that suddenly raised its head into strike position. In all fairness to Mr. Green Mamba, he briefly tasted the air with his tongue as he lifted his head even higher and pulled it back in final readiness because he realized that he was less than a foot from being attacked as well (not really, but we are both much tall than him—even in strike position—so the misunderstanding on his part is quite understandable after all).
His quavering tongue was the last thing I saw. Both Raquel and I did what any rational person who has the utmost respect for highly poisonous snakes would do, we turned around and ran like crazy in the opposite direction. Only Irene ran forward with her camera, bitterly disappointed that the snake had had the very same reaction as we did and slithered quickly down along side the misleadingly western appearing creek that the trail follows.
Now you know why there are no pictures for today. Only five witnesses who live to tell the tale. Green mamba. Oh yeah.
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