Crocodiles
I had been in the Gorongosa National Park for about a week when Carlos Lopes Pereira, director of conservation, told me that his rangers had found the crocodile.
“We are going to shoot it,” he said. “It’s near Vinho.”
Vinho is the village across the muddy Pungue River – the closest community to park headquarters. People wade through the river to get to work; they also play, wash clothes, and bathe there. And one of the last times I was here, a crocodile attacked a woman cleaning corn in the river – she survived after her brother chased the animal away with spears, but people told me she would lose her leg.
The day after that attack, I had waded through the Pungue myself (very nervously) to report more about what had happened. Locals here say attacks aren’t natural, but the result of spells cast by witch doctors at the behest of jealous or angry or jilted neighbors.
I wasn’t so sure. But since then I’ve been fascinated – in a kind of paranoid, fearful way – by crocodiles.


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