Jackal's Dance

by Beverley Harper

  Defection was easy. So many were unaccounted for. If a combatant went missing for more than three days he had a mark drawn through his name and was declared dead. Families were rarely notified – the origins of most men fighting in Angola were either unknown or of no interest. Chester simply walked away.

  Heading south he made for Kaokoland, only to find that both his parents had died some years before. It was quite by accident that Chester encountered Dan Penman working alone on an inspection of Etosha’s northern boundary. For some reason the two men immediately hit it off. When Dan discovered that Chester was looking for work and learned of his qualifications, he mentioned there was a job going as an assistant ranger at Logans Island. All Chester would have to do was demonstrate a knowledge of the bush – not a problem having lived in it for the past seven years – and sit a test. It was worth a try. If only as a stepping stone. Chester figured a couple of years should establish a legitimate employment record and bring in enough money for a return to Windhoek. That was nearly two years ago. Chester loved Etosha and had quickly been promoted to full ranger. Still, more than anything else, his ultimate objective was to become a journalist. It was just difficult to make the break.

  Caitlin McGregor stifled an irritable response to yet another stupid question from a man on the elevated bench behind her driver’s seat. ‘There are no tigers in Africa,’ she replied.

  ‘Leopards then. What about them?’

  ‘Yes, plenty.’

  ‘Are we likely to see any?’

  ‘It’s possible but they’re solitary and largely nocturnal. Leopards lie up during the day to avoid the heat. They only hunt at night.’

  ‘How much longer will we be out here?’ the man’s wife asked. ‘I’m getting hungry.’

  A murmur of agreement sounded from the others in the game-viewing vehicle.

  ‘Not long,’ Caitlin responded. Normally she’d have included one last loop road, taking another twenty-five minutes to reach the lodge. If this lot wanted to go back, that was fine with her. She had learned fairly quickly that there were tourists and tourists. It was a bit of a lottery as to whether a group would be good news or bad. The couple directly behind her were Canadian on their first African encounter. Probably their last too if the constant string of complaints was anything to go by. The others weren’t much better. A bored South African family of four. The husband knew everything, the wife nothing – she had pointed out ‘a teeny little rhino’ which turned out to be a warthog – and their two sons, aged eight and eleven, who clearly disliked each other, weren’t above demonstrating their feelings at the drop of a hat. The French pair were on their honeymoon – he groped his bride at every opportunity and she giggled a lot. Why watch the boring animals when there was a perfectly good tit to squeeze or bum to explore? Then there were the Germans, Erica and Walter Schmidt, a middle-aged couple with their fifteen-year-old daughter. He hated the food, his wife didn’t like their accommodation and the obviously bored daughter, Jutta, couldn’t take her goo-goo eyes off Sean. Unlike the rest who were leaving that morning, the Schmidts had arrived only the previous day for a stay of four nights.

  Caitlin pulled up in the lodge’s shaded parking area and her passengers climbed down from the back with mingled grunts and groans. Erica Schmidt said yet again, ‘Why don’t you make these things more comfortable?’

  ‘Sorry. It’s a bit of a climb, I know.’ Caitlin’s professional smile sat firmly in place but her thought, Fat bitch! Why don’t you lose some weight?, was more in line with how she really felt.

  Their early arrival back caught the dining room unawares and a longer than usual wait for breakfast gave Walter Schmidt his cue for criticism.

  Rangers were supposed to sit with the guests. They were required to answer questions, tell exciting stories and be impressed with a guest’s importance back in whatever metropolis that person came from. Stuff it! Caitlin thought to herself. Rangers are only human. She left her group in the restaurant, walked to the kitchen via a back entrance and helped herself to food – muesli with plain yoghurt and banana slices, tinned carrot juice, an apple and a bottle of mineral water.

  Taking the early morning game drive meant Caitlin had been up since four-fifteen and was now free until lunch. She returned to her quarters, shut the door, and went through half-an-hour’s exercise routine before taking a welcome shower. Dressed in shorts, boots and a T-shirt, she picked up a pair of Zeiss binoculars, notebook and pencil, heading for a staff-only area behind the lodge laundry where no guests would find her.

  Caitlin loved eagles. There was something wild and free about them that stirred an empathy deep inside her. Of the many types indigenous to Africa, Etosha was home to eight with a ninth, the black eagle, residing in remote mountainous regions of Kaokoland. There was a huge martial eagle’s nest close to camp, which she could see clearly through the binoculars. Martial eagles return to the same nest year after year. Each new season the nest is renovated and extended. This particular one was nearly two metres across. Although it was not the breeding season, Caitlin had spotted a mature female the day before. She wanted to see if it was still around.

  Martial eagles were making something of a comeback, although sighting one was still reason enough for excitement. Listed as vulnerable in the Red Data Book of endangered species, the massive bird of prey had been ruthlessly hunted by farmers in their belief that it killed their sheep and was, therefore, the enemy. And it was true, martial eagles did have a penchant for prime lamb as part of their diet. But, in recent times, it had become more widely accepted that they actually did more good than harm, keeping the rock rabbit, rat and mice populations under control. The largest by far of the eagle family, the females could weigh up to six kilograms. Its ermine white belly decorated with dark brown spots, brilliant yellow eyes and pale feathered legs, the bird in flight was majestic indeed.

  Caitlin settled herself against the laundry wall and raised the binoculars, sweeping them over the sky. Today, when she had the time, just to be contrary, the martial eagle was nowhere to be seen.

  Billy found her there. ‘How was the drive? You came back rather early.’

  ‘Not much about and they were complaining of hunger.’

  Billy’s eyebrows flicked up and down, a sign that he was about to throw his weight around. ‘Our publicity material states that we offer a three-hour game-viewing drive. That’s what the punters want. That’s what we must give them.’

  ‘It’s not my fault that they were more than ready to come in.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘And you didn’t sit with them at breakfast.’

  ‘A girl can take only so much.’ With some effort Caitlin kept her voice neutral.

  ‘They expect you to join them. I had to do it.’

  Okay! So now we know where you’re coming from. ‘And I was missed?’

  ‘That’s not the point. I decide on any changes to the routine.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ Caitlin rose, ready to move away. ‘You try taking out a group like that. Or is that not in the rule book either?’

  Billy ignored Caitlin’s sarcasm and frowned after her retreating figure. He didn’t like criticism. In fact, not only did Billy not like it, he more often than not managed to convince himself that it was unwarranted. Caitlin McGregor had no reason to censure him. She had no idea of the responsibility involved in running the lodge. Besides, not being a qualified ranger he was not allowed to take tourists on game drives. She knew that. Shaking his head, Billy returned to the sanctuary of his office.

  Caitlin allowed her irritation to dissipate in its own time. That man had the uncanny knack of getting under her skin just by being there. He was the one flaw in an otherwise perfect life. A life she’d dreamed of from the age of seven when her parents took her to see Born Free. She fell so in love with the movie that she begged her mother for a video copy of it for Christmas and spent hours in front of the television watching it over and over again. At that time, living in Scotland, Caitlin had been enthralled by
the untamed vastness that was Africa. From then, through her schooling, a Bachelor of Science degree, majoring in animal husbandry at Edinburgh University, Caitlin cherished the dream that, one day, she too would work with animals in the African bush.

  As soon as she could, Caitlin joined an overland adventure safari heading for South Africa. Jammed in a truck along with sixteen other ‘stinkies’ as they were commonly called throughout Africa, by the time she arrived at the bottom of the continent, Caitlin knew that Africa was for her. It didn’t matter where. South Africa, for so long ostracised because of its politics, was experiencing a tourist destination bonanza. As a result, related businesses were springing up all over the place, including a thriving game ranger, eco-tourism, nature conservation training industry. Just where the jobs would come from to cope with all the eager, certificate-waving graduates, no-one knew. Or even cared. It was boom time for the game reserves – newspapers said so. Rangers would be needed – advertisements said so.

  Without thinking it through, Caitlin dived headlong into the best ranger training course she could find. With formidable university qualifications to back her up, she breezed through, emerging a qualified game guide only to discover that, even if jobs were available, the new South Africa had adopted an employment policy promoted under a banner by the name of affirmative action. Translated, it meant that regardless of qualifications, a bloody good reason had to be given if a prospective employer wished to take on a white face. Caitlin applied for dozens of positions. Her credentials were not in doubt, enthusiasm never in question. The bottom line was that she was not South African and not the right colour. Stunningly, obviously and undoubtedly the wrong colour. She had the milky white, clear complexion only those who grow up in a cold climate ever achieve. Her shoulder-length curly hair was completely natural. Strawberry blonde. Eyes green, like a cat’s, but flecked with gold.

  Caitlin took the rejections personally. It wasn’t so much a women’s liberation ethic which drove her. She had always felt a keen sense of competitiveness with men. But Caitlin knew a brick wall when she saw one.

  Her quest for work carried her through Botswana, where the hairy-chested, khaki-clad white hunter image fronted for a highly developed and lucrative game-viewing industry. ‘Our clients,’ she was told by more than one Okavango concession operator, ‘need to feel secure in the bush.’

  ‘I can shoot.’

  A small smirk usually accompanied the next words. ‘I’m sure you can, Miss McGregor. But killing the animals is not something we like to associate with our camps.’

  ‘I’ve faced danger in the bush. I didn’t panic. It’s in my certificate.’

  ‘Most admirable.’

  ‘I can drive. I’m a qualified game ranger. What’s your objection?’

  ‘You are a woman.’

  ‘That’s sexist!’ she accused.

  ‘Perhaps.’ A small shrug. ‘What can I say? Women rangers are just not popular.’

  Down but not defeated Caitlin travelled west to Namibia, hoping that its relatively new status as an independent country would mean a shortage of trained African rangers and thus more jobs to go around. Having been a German protectorate up until the First World War, Caitlin was optimistic that Namibia would retain a more European flavour and less of the rigid rules which were the legacy left by Britain.

  She realised quite quickly that this was not the case. Certainly, Namibia’s past, when the country was called German Southwest Africa, was very much in evidence. Food, beer, buildings and a more relaxed atmosphere between the races was reminiscent of Germany’s influence. But, since 1921, Namibia had been administered by South Africa. Seventy years of their paternalistic style of government had left its mark. The ‘women-should-be-seen-and-not-heard’ syndrome introduced by the flood of Afrikaans-speaking settlers at the end of the First World War, despite total independence since 1990, meant that Caitlin stood no better chance of breaking into what men perceived as their world.

  She was just plain lucky. Through a remarkable set of circumstances she was offered a ranger’s job at Logans Island Lodge in Etosha National Park. The previous incumbent had been diagnosed with lung cancer and had returned to Windhoek for medical care. His replacement, due to start work in a few days, had been seriously injured in a car accident the previous day. Caitlin had had the good fortune to turn up unannounced at the Division of Nature Conservation. Desperate for somebody, anybody, she was taken on probation with no-one, least of all Caitlin, expecting the job to last. Accepting the position, Caitlin knew that she had three months at best to convince those who held the power of hire or fire that she was not only up to the task but better than anyone else. While she resented the necessity for this, she was determined to do it.

  She had to admit that, aside from Billy who took every opportunity to criticise, the others had treated her fairly. Dan raised his eyebrows when they first met but made no comment. Since then, he had behaved with the same polite reserve he showed to everybody. Sean simply welcomed her and reacted with pleased approval at the extent of her knowledge. Thea, Billy’s wife, seemed happy to have another woman around, but the routine was so busy the two of them rarely had time for more than a few words. And Chester, easygoing and friendly to everyone except Billy, was no different with Caitlin other than having a weird fixation with her hair. He wanted to cut it and stuff a cushion with it. This revelation caused Caitlin to remember a long-forgotten desire to see how it would look if she let it grow.

  Caitlin, more so than the other three rangers, was already a walking encyclopaedia when it came to bush knowledge. Perhaps being born outside Africa she’d had to study that little bit harder. More likely, though, that Africa was her passion. Whatever the reason, Caitlin’s beloved book collection consisted one hundred per cent of flora and fauna references. The others were observation knowledgeable but Caitlin lived and breathed the reasons why.

  She always tried to give that little bit of extra information on game drives. She inevitably had her hand up when extra duties were required. The African staff liked her because she went out of her way to be cheerful, considerate and helpful. The other rangers responded to her easygoing nature. Tourists felt safe with her because she was so professional.

  When the probationary period was over, the Division of Nature Conservation had no hesitation in offering her a permanent position. Caitlin was in. She had, at last, fulfilled a childhood dream. Even so, the fact that she was a woman went against her.

  Caitlin would have preferred to work solely with animals. The opportunity to do so was provided regularly by the various research programs conducted throughout the park. A lot of the time the hands-on tasks were punishingly physical, and Caitlin could see that Sean, Chester and Dan were better equipped to handle them. Not that she wasn’t fit. She was. No day went by without at least thirty minutes of exercise. Caitlin was in superb shape. She lifted weights, jogged, ate sensibly and didn’t touch alcohol or cigarettes. Despite that, when one of the vets needed help, they rarely asked her. Undeterred, Caitlin continued to volunteer to assist them, determined to get there eventually.

  Thea Abbott drove past and waved. She was on her way to the airstrip, dust billowing behind the vehicle. Caitlin remembered that the British actress, Gayle Gaynor, was booked in for a few days. Another difficult tourist, no doubt.

  THREE

  THE TOURISTS

  ‘Oh my God! Will you just look at that!’ Gayle Gaynor brushed dyed, white-blonde hair back from her forehead with brilliantly red-tipped fingers. ‘I mean, darling, it’s so . . . barren.’ A chic bob contoured her well-defined jawline and curled obediently under a delicately pointed chin.

  Their four-seater Piper Cherokee buzzed the kilometre-long dirt airstrip from a height of no more than three metres above its surrounding vegetation – a necessary precaution to scare off any animals that might wander onto the demarcated landing area – before gaining altitude to come around again, drop the wheels and touch down. They were now on final approach. The pilot, a
man in his early thirties, ignored the woman sitting in the right-hand seat. Johannesburg to Etosha had taken just over five hours, which was, in his opinion, five hours too long. Gayle Gaynor, darling of the silver screen to millions of fans, was a pain in the arse. She’d done nothing but bitch about everything – the pre-dawn start, clear air turbulence, her lack of comfort, even delays on the ground at Hosea Kutaro international airport near Windhoek where they had to clear customs and immigration. That poor bastard in the back seat had copped an earful as if every little inconvenience was his fault.

  ‘What in God’s name do the poor animals eat?’ Gayle asked no-one in particular with a rendition of her throaty screen voice.

  Matt Grandville leaned as far forward as his seat belt would allow and murmured soothingly, ‘You’re looking at the saltpan, Gayle. There’s plenty of grass on the other side. And don’t forget that article we saw. They might have had good rains this year but they’re still recovering from a drought.’

  Gayle tossed her sleek hair. Its natural colour, without chemical enhancement and the expertise of a London hairdresser, was a glorious honey colour, streaked with silver. Noticing the silver some five years ago had sent her scurrying for professional help. ‘I know, Matt sweetie. I can read.’

  Matt stifled a smile, sat back and braced himself for the landing. He hated small planes and was inclined not to trust any pilot under the age of forty-five. Gayle, very well aware of his misgivings, typically chose to charter a flight from Johannesburg rather than catch the scheduled South African Airways airbus to Windhoek and drive north to Etosha. The reason given, that people always stared at her, didn’t hold water. Gayle loved to be recognised. She also had to be in charge. Her insistence that they fly privately was more about ‘I am Gayle Gaynor and I can do whatever I want’ than anything else. Matt felt the familiar tightening in his gut as the small aircraft floated down to a perfectly executed landing.