The Ponzi Men

by David Chilcott

  Chapter 8

  It was eight the following morning and McBride was just emerging from the shower. The bell on his outside door was ringing. Wearing his bathrobe, he opened the door to see Mapoza, the king’s chauffeur grinning at him.

  “Mr McBride, Sir, the king tells me I have to take you to the safari park this morning, where you are going to paint the animals. This is correct Sir?”

  “It certainly is, although I haven’t had my breakfast yet.”

  “That is okay, Sir, I could be packing your luggage…”

  “Yes, sure. You’ll know what I will need for three days in the bush, yes?”

  “I could hazard a guess. But you will have to choose your art gear.”

  “Of course. That’s still packed and ready to go.” The doorbell rang again, and Mapoza opened it to welcome in the manservant with the breakfast trolley.

  Mapoza said: “Get your breakfast. I’ll leave some clothes on your bed, and pack what you’ll need and take them down to the Range Rover. When you’re ready, I will be waiting in the car.”

  When McBride went down to the courtyard, Mapoza was not in the car, but sitting cross legged on the ground, in the sun, talking to the manservant who had served breakfast. They were playing some complicated looking game with pebbles, and scratching marks with a stick in the dust.

  McBride opened the hatchback of the Range Rover, and slung in his art equipment. “Ready to go,” he called, and climbed into the front passenger seat.

  Mapoza was beside him in seconds, firing up the engine, swinging the car in a tight circle and driving down to the main gates which were already being swung open by the sentries.

  This was the first glimpse of Maswatiland in daylight, apart from the view from his apartment window, and he enjoyed the ride through Mawabane. The traffic in the main square was approximately obeying international driving standards. At least they were all driving in the same direction on the same side of the road, unless overtaking, which was alarming to experience. Horns were used when this occurred. The vehicles were by no means old, although they all bore dents. McBride reckoned the standard of living was probably higher than that of South Africa. Although the roads in the town were well-paved, dust blew around, giving a hazy appearance. The weather was sunny, although not too hot at this altitude – about 1,500 metres above sea level. Mapoza drove fast, travelling in a series of curves as he avoided pedestrians who wandered aimlessly across the road.

  They were very quickly out of the central area and into the suburbs, at first rows of brick houses, then traditional round huts with thatched roofs, and finally some shacks with tin roofs and walls made from packing cases. Finally they were on a tarmac good quality road at first climbing, and then dropping again for miles into a valley, where McBride could see a fairly substantial river flowing through a forest. And then they were into grasslands. He gradually dozed off, and woke with a start when Mapoza spoke.

  “We shall reach the safari park in about fifteen minutes, Sir. I am not allowed to take the car any further than the entrance. You are booked into two camps. The first one is called Waterhole Camp, and consists of tents around a restaurant and bar. It overlooks a waterhole. The whole camp is surrounded by an electric fence for security, but it does not hinder the view. A safari bus makes regular journeys between here and the camp.”

  Mapoza was now swinging off the road and under a large arch which read Maswati Mara Safari Reserve. Several cars were parked on a gravelled area, and across from this was a two storey administration block with café and toilet facilities. Mapoza parked the car and carried McBride’s luggage across to the reception area in the building. He went to the counter, and handed an envelope to the girl behind it. As she slid the letter from the envelope, McBride saw the royal crest, and the girl almost stood to attention as she read it.

  “Mr McBride, welcome to the safari park. Unfortunately Waterhole Camp consists of tents only. Perhaps you would like to reselect your choice?”

  McBride was amused. “No, I have come here to be on safari, and I think a tent would be a fine experience. It is not the first time I have slept in a tent.” He thought of his army service. She pulled a form from under the desk, filled it in, reversed it so that it was facing McBride.

  “Can you please read and sign this? It is to protect the park, if anything happens to you.”

  “Such as being eaten alive?” said McBride, and signed the paper.

  “The minibus will leave in five minutes, the driver will load your luggage. Your tent number is five. You are there for two nights, and then you will catch the minibus to the next camp which is by the river. It is called River No 1 camp. There you have a traditional native house. That will be number three, and you are there for one night. After that you catch the bus back to this reception centre.”

  Mapoza had been listening. “I will pick you up when you return to the visitor centre, and I will be here at noon. If you are happy with the arrangements, I will leave now. Have a good holiday.”

  He gave an American style salute and a cheerful grin, and walked in the direction of the Range Rover. McBride could see the minibus driver walking across the car park in the direction of the reception centre. The door opened as Mapoza left, and he held the door for the bus driver.

  “Mr McBride? The bus is ready to leave. Shall we go? I will carry your luggage.” Extreme efficiency in Maswatiland, thought McBride.

  The minibus had seats for twelve passengers, but McBride was alone with the driver, so he sat at the front. The driver had a shot gun clipped to the roof over his head, in a convenient position to retrieve it. There was an army style riot grille over the front windows. The bus drove out onto an earth track. Old ruts had been filled in, but it wasn’t smooth. For that reason the driver kept his speed down. McBride had plenty of time to search for game. On his left, a treeless plain stretched as far as some low mountains. As he looked, McBride saw animals moving.

  “Those are impala,” said the driver. “They move as a herd. That way they are protected by each other against attack. There will be about fifty animals in the herd.” McBride was suddenly aware of how many birds were in the trees nearer to the track, and so brightly coloured.

  McBride gestured to the windscreen grille. “Does the minibus get attacked?”

  “You mean the grille we have. That’s just in case of rogue elephants. Never been attacked yet, but it is theoretically possible. Occasionally lions attack vehicles, but only if the windows are open. They’re not stupid. They prefer the odds of catching other animals such as the impala over there.” He nodded to the left.

  The minibus tackled a slight incline, and then they were travelling downhill and McBride could see the camp, a fairly dense clump of trees, with a thatched building in the centre, and tents all around.

  “The building is a restaurant and bar. There’s a camp fire lit every night near the tents. An electrical fence surrounds the camp. You can watch the animals at the waterhole. Have a word with the ranger at the camp, he’ll tell you the best times to see lions, for example.”

  By now, the minibus had stopped at the gate in the fence and the driver got out to open it. He drove the bus through and parked at the back of the restaurant. After closing the gate, he carried McBride’s luggage to tent five, and left him to go back and unload some stores he had brought for the restaurant.

  McBride was eager to get to his painting, rather than unpack. He chose a good position near the wire, not far from his tent. He set up the easel, and using a special clamp he had, he mounted the camera complete with the film back. He had a full cassette of paper, twenty shots. He clipped an imperial sheet of NOT Bockingford 300 pound paper to the board. He prepared his paint palette, and then used a 2B pencil to sketch out the waterhole. The farthest end was covered in scrub, and some larger trees. At McBride’s end of the pool, animals could wade in, but opposite there were steep mud banks. Altogether, depending where the animals positioned themselves, the composition was good. If he needed to adjust the
position of the animals in the painting, well he hoped he had captured them on camera so that would be possible.

  He scanned the area, but there were no animals in sight. He got out his palette and began to block in the sky, with the mountains faint blue with distance. He got the local trees overhanging the pool, adding in some reflections, but leaving the ‘golden point’ where he hoped an animal would appear for the perfect picture. The brightness of the colours here, near the equator made a pleasant change from painting in northern Europe. He sensed someone at his shoulder, smelled tobacco smoke, and turned. A wrinkled black man with a grey bush of hair was examining the painting.

  “Hello there, you must be Mr McBride. I’m the ranger in residence here. You haven’t wasted any time. All you’re waiting for is animals. Bit late this morning for the cats. You need to be up at first light, and there’s a lion with two cubs drink here, if they’ve been hunting overnight. That would make a good picture. The sun coming up brings their fur to life, a lovely sepia tone. And the reflections in the pool are something else.”

  “You sound like a painter yourself,”McBride said

  “No such luck, but I appreciate the beauty of the park.”

  “I’ve got a camera that produces prints, in case I haven’t time to paint them.”

  “In the morning they’re not in a hurry. You should have the time, seeing you paint fast. I’ve been watching you a while. You were too busy to see me.”

  “I’ve been a painter a long time now. You get confident and watercolour is the right medium to paint quickly. If you don’t paint like that, the result looks forced and dull.”

  The ranger, dropped his cigarette end on the ground and carefully stepped on it to make sure it was out.

  “So it’s lions in the morning. This afternoon could be giraffes, or certainly bison. That will keep you busy. How many paintings are you hoping to finish?”

  “My target is three a day. Should be possible?”

  “Sure, you’ve got twelve hours of daylight this time of year. And not too many tourists, being a bit early in the season. Too many people around get some of the animals a bit frisky. Here come the giraffes now. There’s a bit of luck.”

  McBride saw the giraffes, maybe a dozen approaching from behind him. He stood patiently alongside the ranger as they approached, with his finger on the camera button. They approached the pool so that they could wade straight in. McBride was assessing the odds of getting a composed painting. Not too good if they all went into the pool together. Then he had a bit of luck, Two giraffes were in the pool, their long necks dipping down, legs straddled, but the rest of the group were making for the trees for something to eat. McBride pressed the button, got the two giraffes drinking, re-aimed the camera to catch the giraffes with their tongues stripping leaves from the upper branches. The paper feed started with a low whirr, and two instant prints emerged from the back plate. McBride got hold of the prints, pulled the strips to start the development. When they were ready, he slipped both prints under a clip on the board.

  The ranger nodded. “That’s real good,” he said in a low voice.

  But McBride was too busy to answer. With his pencil he was sketching the giraffes in the pool, moving their images slightly to improve the composition, and quickly mixing paint and laying it loosely on the pencil marks, adding the same colours into the water area for the reflections. The giraffes posed unaware, but hardly moving, and already McBride was getting some shadow in, giving a three dimensional look to the animals. He used some shadow to reduce the reflection strength, then using a number six brush filled the pattern on the skin, and adding flecks of colour. Within fifteen minutes he had painted the two giraffes without referring to the photograph. He spent a few minutes completing the trees, but didn’t attempt to paint the giraffes at that end. He completed the background to tone in behind the giraffes and the painting was done.

  “That’s really great, mate. It shows why you’re famous.”

  McBride gave a disparaging shrug. “It’s just my job.”

  No more animals approached the pool before dusk, so McBride finished his second painting of the four giraffes in his photo who were dining on the trees.

  Four animals was an even number, not comfortable viewing for the human brain, which prefers an odd number, for some psychological reason. So McBride only painted the three animals. He moved his easel further along the pool, to give a different viewpoint, still a good composition. When he had finished he realized that he was hot and thirsty, packed the two finished paintings in his portmanteau, stowed his easel in the tent and went to find a drink.

  The bar area was dark to his eyes as he stepped under the thatched porch.

  The ranger was standing behind the counter.

  “What are you drinking, Mr McBride?” he said, leaning a hand on a beer pump handle.

  “A pint of lager would go down a treat.” The ranger drew the pint himself. The only other staff member in sight was a boy restocking the bar, putting bottles into the refrigerated cabinets from crates he carried from somewhere out back.

  “So you’re one painting down already?”

  “What?” McBride was caught thinking of other things. “Oh, I see. That’s no problem. I just have to paint four tomorrow. I’ve done that before.”

  The boy finished restocking and carried the empty crates away. Within minutes he was over in the restaurant area, setting cutlery on the tables. A couple drifted in and sat along the bar. McBride drained his glass and went to look for the washroom.