by Alex MacBeth
PART TWO
Chapter Twelve
Christopher Tomlinson casually flicked through his copy of New Scientist. He lifted his head and surveyed the other passengers pushing trolleys and sipping paper coffee cups at Heathrow Airport. His flight wasn’t due to leave for another two hours and Tomlinson was irritated that he had arrived at the airport so early. He bought himself another cappuccino with marshmallows from Starbucks, knowing that such creature comforts would be hard to come by where he was going.
The young zoologist was on his way to Mozambique to take up a posting in a new nature reserve that was due to open in a few months. He had seen the advert on the Ecologist website seeking an assistant park director and had sent a long cover letter outlining his appreciation of Bantu languages and his thesis on repopulation of the Big Five.
Tomlinson had never been to Africa, but he felt he knew the continent well through the books he had pre-ordered from Better World Books – Blixen’s Out of Africa, Hofmann’s The White Masai and Theroux’s Dark Star Safari. He had even read a book called Things Fall Apart by an African author called Chinua Achebe. Tomlinson felt ready, even if he had no contacts where he was going.
Luckily, Tomlinson didn’t have to worry about people. His main concern would be animals. The Nampula Wildlife Reserve was one of the World Bank’s marquee projects in Mozambique, a multi-million dollar wildlife preservation endeavour coupled with a year-on-year repopulation programme. Sixteen years of civil war had led to a widespread famine in Mozambique and many isolated communities, caught between the gunfire of rebels and government forces, had turned to wildlife for food. While in the 1950s northeast Mozambique had large numbers of lions, elephants and giraffes, practically all animals in the north of the country had been killed by the mid-1980s. It was a dream job for any zoologist keen to work in East Africa, home of the Big Five and the world’s last greatest wildlife reserves.
He hadn’t known what to pack for the journey yet he had been inundated with suggestions from concerned family members and colleagues. “You know, you’re probably going to die,” his best friend Francis had told him at a goodbye drink in Hoxton. His mother had been more nuanced. “Christopher, I really do think you should reconsider, darling. It’s a former war-zone, for God’s sake. What’s wrong with Sweden? They have bears.” The news had been too much for his girlfriend Jane, with whom things had been slowly disintegrating since soon after they had met.
“Flight TZ 424 to Dar es Salaam then Maputo will start boarding rows one to fifteen…” said a machine-inspired voice over a loudspeaker.
In the air he pulled out his tattered copy of Jane Goodall’s In the Shadow of Man but dozed off after a few minutes reading. When he awoke the plane was shaking like a table next to a washing machine. Air hostesses carrying drinks drifted past at random times in his dream. The air smelt like week-old curry. He fell back into a light sleep and awoke with the thump of the plane landing in Dar es Salaam. Two hours later Tomlinson was in Nampula.
The other passengers had left the plane by the time he disembarked. His suitcases sat by the edge of a dormant luggage conveyor and Immigration looked frustrated by his belated appearance at their desk. When he stepped outside the number of hands in close proximity to his face soon overwhelmed him. The air was so hot he felt like his breath was being filtered through an exhaust pipe. He was sweating before he’d even stepped out of the shade. “Vem, amigo,” ushered one taxi driver wearing a Manchester United top. “Senhor, com migo,” rapped another wearing a 1980s Queen Park Rangers jersey. “Aqui, amigo,” yet one more. A dozen taxi drivers competed to sell rides to the few passengers that remained.
Tomlinson had the feeling of having made friends before he’d even spoken a word. The taxi drivers continued to wave their offers before Tomlinson, who went with the old man in the stained QPR top.
“Where to?” the driver asked pulling out of the airport.
“The Hotel Monte Carlo.” Before long he was cruising into Nampula, dreaming of elephants and lions. Tomlinson’s job was to last twelve months, after which his superiors would evaluate his performance and designate capacity-building projects the new assistant park director would implement on the ground. Besides having to report to his boss, the park director João, he would have free reign to move the reserve in any direction he desired. Should habitats suddenly grow or repopulate Tomlinson had the budgetary flexibility to expand. The Nampula Wildlife Reserve was being touted among international donors as a pilot project for wildlife sustainability in East Africa.
His mind went wild as they drove into the city. He felt he saw more in fifteen minutes than he had seen in a lifetime. A row of women carrying large sacks of rice on their heads redefined his notion of strength. A musician slapping flip-flops together at a street corner made him think twice about his notions of art. A motorbike driver carrying a mattress appeared to Tomlinson as a dancing bird of paradise.
The Monte Carlo had clean rooms and a nice roof terrace, from which Tomlinson could discern the outline of a rock mountain in the distance. He bought a Mac-Mahon, the local beer, and began to summarise the day’s events in his diary. He pulled out his copy of The Elephant Book and dreamed of Loxodonta, the African elephant, and of where he would soon be.
The next day Tomlinson was standing outside the imposing Ethnographic Museum in Nampula. The cement palace was a testament to communist architecture, thought Tomlinson: everything – columns, steps, windows – was huge but exuded little warmth. It was at least 38 degrees Celsius and two sweat patches had already formed on his white shirt. The more he drank to cool his panic, the more he sweated. He had arranged a meeting with Abdalla, a park ranger, who was supposed to have arrived at 10am. It was 12.15 and Tomlinson was melting.
“You must be Christopher,” said a friendly voice and before he knew who had said what, a strong arm had found its way to Tomlinson’s neck and shoulders.
“I am the park ranger, Abdalla,” the man said as he loaded Tomlinson’s bags into the car. “How was the trip?”
“Muito bom,” said Tomlinson launching his broken Portuguese. Abdalla, relieved to hear his guest speak the language, switched back to his native tongue, peppering his points on the two hour journey with English phrases like ‘action plan’ or ‘tremendous potential’. Abdalla was extremely well dressed. His shirt stuck perfectly to his body without a molecule of visible perspiration and Tomlinson instantly wished he could carry himself as smoothly as his new colleague in this heat. Abdalla’s sunglasses covered half his face and he wore at least six bracelets on both arms. The young park ranger struck Tomlinson as somebody who could have been as comfortable with a life in showbiz, on a stage or a dance floor, as dealing with elephant dung and the evaluation of feeding patterns.
They pulled into the park at around 17:30, as the sun was setting. “The sunset graze,” said Tomlinson, evidently excited. Abdalla nodded and drove on into the park, past a large sign emblazoned with images of rhinos and elephants. Tomlinson kept his eyes peeled as they drove but saw very few beasts. From the first minutes he had been in the park the signs of neglect had been unavoidable. Rubbish lined the roads. “Where are the animals?” asked the young zoologist. “Maybe they know you are coming and want to surprise you tomorrow,” replied Abdalla. They arrived at a small tent surrounded by a concrete wall before either could expand any further.
Tomlinson stepped out of the car into absolute obscurity. He fiddled for a torch in his bag, but Abdalla was already holding two. “Here,” he said handing one to Tomlinson. “This way, boss.” Tomlinson followed, trying to explain that he didn’t like to be called boss and that there was no need to carry his suitcase. They reached a small wooden cabin and Abdalla opened the door, switched on the light and parked Tomlinson’s luggage in the bedroom. “Let us talk more tomorrow,” Abdalla said, leaving abruptly. Tomlinson fired up his travel playlist on his iPod. He poured himself some gin from a bottle he’d bought from the duty-free store at Heathrow and added some local tonic wate
r. He found half a curled up grilled chicken and some soggy chips perspiring under Clingfilm. He wasn’t ready for it and instead moved on to an electric kettle, a Pot Noodle, and two of the dozens of energy bars his mother had buried in his luggage. I’d like to spend some time in Mozambique, sung Dylan. Do I like being in Mozambique, thought Tomlinson? Dylan wasn’t even talking about the African country when he’d sung the song. Tomlinson could at least say he was enjoying it.
He awoke at around 4.15am to investigate sunrise behaviour and to make a preliminary visual inventory of the animals in Section 1, where his house was located. Section 2 was designated solely for the repopulation of elephants. Section 3 was a special Animal Psychology Centre. Tomlinson was due to visit Section 2 tomorrow and had been told to await a call from a local wildlife official authorising him to visit Section 3. The zoologist thought it was ridiculous that he should need a piece of paper to move between sections. He accepted the red tape was a colonial hangover he would have to get used to.
When he arrived outside, the first rays of light, faint blotches in the dark, had begun to make clear-lit frames of landscape. Tomlinson took his jacket and jumped in the open-sided Jeep Safari with a flask of coffee and his binoculars. He drove on the first road he found, noting its distance from Section 1 Base and the direction it was going in. Maps will be needed, he thought. For now he was still more interested in discovering his new dependants than tracking their habitats. He turned at a baobab tree with large unfolding arms for branches and grey bark pitted like an elephant’s hide. He knew that all the medicinal plants elephants need to stay healthy grow under baobab trees and slowed to spot signs of his favourite animal. He was surprised and disappointed to see no droppings, broken twigs or trampled ground there. Puzzled but undeterred he drove into a Savannah. A hyena scampered away in the distance while a warthog rustled its way back to the river. But what about the elephants, lions and giraffes? Tomlinson drove on, telling himself he must have taken a wrong turn. He drove for another hour, eventually returning to Section 1 Base, having seen nothing but another (or maybe the same) warthog, a colony of weaverbirds, a lone toucan, and a handful of African crows.
He remembered reading how Joyce Poole, when she was working with elephants in Kenya in the 1980s, said that she felt she could tell when there were elephants nearby. She said ‘it was not anything I could hear or smell or see, just that if elephants were absent, the landscape had a stillness, an emptiness’. But if elephants were anywhere nearby then ‘there seemed to be a vibrancy in the air, a certain warmth.’ Tomlinson glumly realised that there was none of that vibrancy or warmth in the Nampula Wildlife Reserve. The emptiness ruled. He would need to repopulate fast if the park was to open on schedule in ninety days.
He knew the transport alone for each animal could cost thousands of dollars. He could get lions and elephants from Kruger National Park in South Africa. But ninety days was nothing and any new elephants introduced, inevitably rivals, would need to be left in privacy to acclimatise and settle. Luckily a local foundation – together with the World Bank - had written a cheque to underscore any costs the park would incur in ensuring the ‘steady re-acquaintance of humans and animals in Nampula Province.’ But ninety days, he told himself with mounting anger, was totally unrealistic.
Nearby he heard a shrill ‘hee hee’ and swivelled round to see who thought anything about his present predicament was funny. There was nobody there. ‘Hee hee’ the voice mocked again. He looked up to see a green-backed woodpecker attacking a branch overhead. ‘Hee hee!’ it screeched on, and Tomlinson couldn’t help but laugh with it.
When he arrived back at his house, Abdalla was waiting for him. “Where did you go?” he kept repeating. “It is dangerous to go wondering alone.” Tomlinson looked away to hide his offence. “I’m a trained zoologist, trust me, I can handle these beasts.”
“Beasts? Humans are the biggest danger here.”
Abdalla and Tomlinson drove off to Section 2 together for a meeting and lunch with the park director and the board.
What did he mean by humans are the biggest danger here?
They arrived at Section 2 HQ around midday by which time Tomlinson had once again drenched his shirt with sweat patches. His shoes had turned the colour of dust and his trousers had tomato stains from the Pot Noodle the night before. He hadn’t seen the stain.
The Park Director, João Abdurramane, was a small but sturdy fat man in his forties with a warm triangular smile but hard eyes. He had a large bald head and a scar above his left eye. His shirt undertook a tentative collaboration with his trousers to cover up his stomach.
“João,” said the Director, reaching out with a large, worn hand to shake Tomlinson’s.
“Chris,” replied Tomlinson. “It’s very good to meet you Director Abdurramane.” He had been told that it would be better to address his boss as your Excellency, but realised it was too late to rectify that now.
João, Tomlinson, Abdalla and three other men, all wearing sunglasses and business suits, stepped into the Jeep Safari and drove off down a road. After a few bumpy minutes they reached a ring-fenced section and pulled up beside the gate. “This is where you will see our best animals,” said João with pride, standing and pointing at a forlorn young elephant in the distance. Tomlinson looked at it. He remembered the words of the South African zoologist Lyall Watson: ‘A solitary elephant is not an elephant at all.’
The emaciated elephant caught sight of the car and approached menacingly. “You can’t be too careful with these war-torn ones, they remember everything,” said João, as they drove to a site further on where a single lion was to be reintroduced to the park. “The king of all animals. So charming, so majestic. The best,” gushed Director João, still standing and now in full swing. Abdalla spat onto the ground and parked the car beside the fence. He leaned uncomfortably near to Tomlinson and said quietly, “This is a good place to see the animals from.” He looked at the sky and then at the ground. “Right here,” he repeated twice, pointing at a tall fence pole. “From here everything about the place is clear,” Abdalla insisted. Tomlinson was getting tired of the repetition and he could see that the Director was also annoyed by Abdalla’s persistence because he shot him a look so stern Abdalla cringed and didn’t say another word. Tomlinson took out his binoculars and looked around in a 360° circle. All he could see was Savannah, large baobab trees and tall grass. “But your Excellency…ies,” said Tomlinson, still unsure of how to address his boss or the three mysterious guests he had not yet been introduced to. “Where are the lions?”
Everybody burst out laughing. “Well, they are not here yet,” said the Director. “That’s where we need you.” Tomlinson was stunned. “But I thought the reintroduction of lions to the park had begun two years ago, together with the impala and roebuck?”
“Well, technically, yes,” began the Director, now half-stuttering. “We did have a lion here at one point.”
“A lion. One lion?” Tomlinson exclaimed.
“One lion, yes. But it soon ate the hundred or so impala we reintroduced. One night the ranger, tired of finding impala bones, killed the lion. We have a lot of work to do, my dear Tomlinson. Your work will be to focus on cleaning up and improving Section 1 and building up Section 2. For any zoologist with a keen eye for conservation, this is an exciting challenge. You are up for it, right?”
“Of course, sir, I mean Director, I mean, Your Excellency… of course. Every journey starts with one step,” added the young zoologist.
“Every safari starts with one step,” repeated the Director, slapping Tomlinson’s back. Tomlinson could still feel the sting of the Director’s broad palm as they drove off to lunch.
“Tomlinson, do you mind if I call you Chris? Let us do away with the formalities of hierarchy. You need not call me your Excellency, Director João is fine.” Tomlinson couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable in the Director’s presence. “Chris,” began the Director again after a brief pause “Mozambique is not an easy country
to work in. You will find it quite different to what you have experienced before. Things may not happen on time or work out quite as you expect them to. Sometimes we must have forty eyes to see things that didn’t happen to understand what could happen. You understand me?”
Tomlinson was pretty confident he had not understood the director but he nodded anyway. “We are a nation recovering from a difficult past but we are determined to move forward. I ask only that you give your work a chance before judging it,” continued the Director. “While we are here and before we sit down to lunch, do you have any questions you would like to ask me? I presume you have read my latest paper?”
Tomlinson had indeed read The difficulties of repopulation in the sub-tropical Savannah in the December 2013 edition of a minor environmental review. He had thought it was a weak and badly researched contribution, barely touching on the key issues. He remembered being astonished that such a poor research paper could even have been published.
“I very much enjoyed your paper, Director,” Tomlinson gushed. “It was a major insight into the issues of repopulation. I do have one question, however. I have now visited Section 1 and Section 2, but what happens in Section 3?”
Abdalla coughed and spat on the ground again.
“It is the centre for animal psychology. It is of course also restricted access,” said the Director pronouncedly. “Access only with special clearance,” he added, pulling a card from his back pocket and flashing it in Tomlinson’s face. “But in good time I’m sure you’ll also come to have a role at Animal Psychology or AP as we call it. Shall we eat something first?”
Tomlinson realised he might have jumped the gun with the questions and was happy for the reprieve which lunch offered. They discussed football and music and Sylvester Stallone films. The opening burst of tension between the staff at the Nampula Wildlife Reserve dissipated. About two-thirds of the way through the meal the Director received a call, made his excuses saying he was forced to leave and promised to make an appointment to meet again soon. The Jeep sped off into the distance, leaving Tomlinson and Abdalla alone. “So how do we get home?” asked Tomlinson. “We use the Grandfather-Mobile,” said Abdalla.
