by Tony Park
The prey of wild dogs, Graham knew, died of shock and massive blood loss and the impala was literally torn apart in front of his eyes in a spray of blood and hair. To many humans it seemed cruel and horrible, but Graham contrasted it to the way leopards killed – slowly suffocating their prey – or lions, whose kills were often drawn-out affairs, where the feeding began before the victim was even dead.
Graham lowered his binoculars, but raised them again when he caught sight of movement at the far end of the airstrip. Through the lenses he saw the loping, hunchbacked figures of four spotted hyenas. It wasn’t unusual for them to trail a pack of wild dogs, waiting for Africa’s most successful predators to bring something down and then use their superior bulk to chase them off the kill. Graham thought of Gina, whom he had patched up and was recovering nicely. He would miss her and the rest of her clan.
The hyenas, however, were too late. The dogs had left little more than bones and some raggedy skin. Faces bloodied and rallying each other with squeaking calls, they turned and ran at the hyenas. The two families danced around each other, the hyenas whooping and cackling and the dogs almost playing with their adversaries.
Graham moved on again. He wondered how his own hunt would end.
Chapter 29
Kerry wanted to get to where Graham was apparently staying, at Boulders Camp in the Kruger Park according to the tweet Eli had seen on his phone, as quickly as possible, but it was a busy time of the year and the direct flights from Cape Town to Skukuza Airport inside the park were fully booked.
Instead, she and Eli flew to Johannesburg the next morning and caught a connecting flight to Kruger Mpumalanga International Airport – KMIA – near White River. The flight landed on time at four-fifteen in the afternoon, but there was no way they could make it to Boulders Camp before the park gates closed.
Kerry had called her father, and Bruce and his new friend Tamara Shepherd were waiting for them in the cool, thatch-roofed terminal. The pair had been travelling together, sightseeing.
Eli went to the men’s room and Tamara excused herself, after greeting them, to go and pay for her car parking ticket.
‘What’s with you and the nurse?’ Kerry asked her father now that they were alone.
‘Tammy. She’s bonza, isn’t she?’
Kerry felt uncomfortable seeing her father acting like an excited teenager. She felt a pang of loss for her mother, but that had been two years ago and as far as she knew her father hadn’t dated anyone else since. ‘No one’s said “bonza” since 1952.’
‘But you do like her, don’t you?’ he said.
‘I hardly know her, Dad.’
He blinked a couple of times. ‘It’s important to me.’
‘What is? Having sex, ten minutes after having a heart attack?’
He gave her his lopsided grin, and despite his grey hair and wrinkles she saw the forever-young eyes looking back at her. ‘How do you know what we’re getting up to? What I meant was that it’s important to me that you don’t mind.’
‘I’m old enough not to mind you seeing another woman. I know men have needs.’
‘I need love, Kez, that’s all.’
She swallowed hard. ‘We all do.’
He reached out and gently clasped her shoulder. ‘You OK?’
‘Yeah. No. I don’t know.’
‘Are you really sure you want to go after that lunatic drunken vet?’
‘Yes, Dad.’
‘You could find another bloke in a heartbeat, Kez.’
She sighed. ‘Even if you’re right, Dad, after everything that’s happened I can’t just go back to my job in Australia and pretend that this was all a dream, or a nightmare. There’s a war going on here and no one back home even knows.’
He took a deep breath, then noisily exhaled. ‘When I came back from Vietnam – hell, when I came back from Somalia, East Timor, Afghanistan, all of them – I had this feeling that no one in good old safe and predictable Australia had the first fucking idea of what was going on out there in the rest of the world, where I’d been.’
Her father, although a soldier, had rarely sworn around the house, and when he did she took notice. He wasn’t prone to anger or abuse, but her mother had told them, when they were growing up, that sometimes their father needed space, to be left alone, and that it wasn’t because he didn’t love them or didn’t want to be with them. He was not one to tell war stories, but she wondered, now that she had faced death and gunfire for the first time in her life, how he had been able to hold himself together so well and for so long.
‘I think I know what you mean,’ she said.
Bruce nodded. ‘It’s not easy, coming home, but you’ve got to, sometime.’
She remembered seeing a video of the Vietnam Veterans Welcome Home Parade, from back in 1987. She had been a toddler at the time, but she had a memory of seeing her father on the television screen a few times when the video was replayed, the camera momentarily focusing on him. Why is Daddy crying? she had asked her mother. ‘Because he is now home,’ her mother had answered.
Eli came to them and, perhaps sensing they were deep in conversation, offered to take their luggage trolley out to the car. He left them again.
‘I know I have to go home at some point, Dad,’ Kerry said, ‘but what if home isn’t Australia any more? What if it’s here?’
Bruce ran a hand through his hair. ‘I’m worried sick about you and this Mozambican madman who’s trying to kill you, but it’s why I’m here, Kerry. I’ll take you to find Graham. I know that if I told you that you were crazy and I flew home to Australia you’d just carry on with this mission of yours alone. At least this way I can keep a bloody eye on you.’
She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Dad.’ They walked, arm in arm, towards the terminal exit. ‘But I don’t want to cramp your style with your new girlfriend.’
He laughed. ‘Tammy’s got to go back to work on Friday, but she’s due three days’ leave first. We were talking about going into the Kruger Park anyway.’
‘This might not be a holiday,’ Kerry said.
They went outside and Tamara was already at the collection point with her Nissan X-Trail and Eli on board. Kerry and Bruce got in and Tamara drove, following signs to the Kruger Park’s Numbi Gate.
‘We’re booked into Pretoriuskop for the night,’ Tamara said. ‘It’s the closest camp to the gate.’
‘So we can make it to Boulders tomorrow?’ Kerry asked.
‘Ja,’ Tamara said, ‘it’s a very long drive, but we can do it if we leave early.’
Bruce looked over his shoulder from the front passenger seat. ‘Kez, Graham might have just booked out that big camp all by himself because he wants some peace and quiet, not because he wants a bunch of Australians and Americans crashing his hermit’s party.’
‘And a South African,’ Tamara weighed in. ‘Actually, I’d love to go see Boulders Camp. It’s very hard to get a booking there and it’s the only place in the Kruger I’ve never stayed.’
That swung it for her father. Bruce, in the first flush of romance, would say or do anything to impress his new girlfriend. ‘Well, I suppose the old goat wouldn’t mind a bit of company,’ he said.
From the airport the countryside went from hills covered with farms and timber plantations to sprawling settlements. Schoolchildren walked on the roadside and minibus taxis weaved unpredictably in and out of the traffic. Kerry checked her phone. ‘Bloody hell.’
Eli, sitting next to her, craned his head to look at her screen. ‘More irate tweets from Graham?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘His Twitter account’s crazier than Donald Trump’s,’ Eli said, ‘and that’s saying something.’
‘I’m worried about him,’ Kerry said. ‘He seems to be goading Costa into doing something, to having another go at killing him. He’s trying to publicly shame him, and Sarah in the process.’
‘Costa deserves shaming,’ Eli said. ‘I’m more worried about you than I am Graham. He gave you s
ome good advice when he told you to take care of yourself and stick with me.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Bruce from the front.
*
The following morning Fidel Costa sat in the small but tastefully decorated circular waiting area of Skukuza Airport in the Kruger Park, fanning himself with his Panama hat. The irony of the fact that he could see a life-size statue of a rhino just outside the terminal was not lost on him.
Even more amusing to him was the knowledge that a good stone’s throw away from where he sat was the Mission Area Joint Operations Centre – the headquarters of South Africa’s war against poaching in the Kruger Park. And here he was, right under their noses, a respectable businessman turned philanthropist and head of an NGO established to conserve the rhino. He allowed himself a self-satisfied smile.
The Airlink Embraer from Cape Town landed and Fidel joined a troop of khaki and green–clad safari guides waiting to pick up their tourist clients.
‘Welcome,’ he said to Sarah Hoyland when she appeared.
‘Great to be back in the park again,’ she said.
Fidel took her carry-on bag from her as she went to the national parks reception desk to organise her entry permit into the park.
Sarah travelled light, with no check-in luggage, so once the paperwork was done they walked straight out to the car park where a black Range Rover with Mozambican plates sat idling, air conditioning on to stave off the sweltering heat.
Sarah paused and looked at the writing and logo on the side. ‘This is our official Animals Without Borders Rhino Conservation Centre vehicle? A Rangie? This costs more than most people’s houses here.’
Fidel nodded. ‘Yes, much more. And it’s not the only vehicle. Rest assured, however, the others are Land Cruisers so not nearly as expensive.’
His driver opened the back door for them and they climbed in.
‘You don’t think this vehicle is maybe a tad ostentatious?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ he said. For all her time spent in Africa she still had much to learn.
‘So why buy it – with our donated funds?’
‘Your aim is to make the people who live in Mozambique feel a sense of ownership of the rhinos you are bringing to my country, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then they need to see that the animals are worth it, in monetary value – that there is prosperity in conservation.’
‘Fidel, pardon my Australian slang, but that is kind of fucked up.’
He laughed. ‘That’s one of the things I like about you, Sarah, you are not afraid to speak your mind. Let me explain.’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘I am the chairman of your new rhino facility and conservation program in Massingir, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘That makes me a chief, of sorts.’
‘That’s one way to put it.’
‘A chief commands – and deserves – respect. The people around him need to be reminded that he is in charge, and that he is successful. A vehicle like this shows people that I deserve respect, that there is money behind this project, and that, therefore, there is value in keeping rhinos alive.’
‘Whatever.’
He felt she was being dismissive of him, but he didn’t mind too much. She didn’t understand the relationship he had with his constituency, with his people. Outsiders, non-Africans, often wondered why so many people in African countries who lived in abject poverty did not rise up in anger and revolution when they saw their elected leaders living in big houses, driving expensive cars and even flying in luxury jets. Politics and power meant wealth in Africa – Fidel Costa was living proof of it – and the average man on the street in Massingir aspired to a better life. It was how Fidel recruited, how he extended his patronage and shored up his web of support in the police, bureaucracy, and in the local business community – with money.
‘I’ve seen you all over the internet,’ he said, ‘announcing our joint venture. There’s been some opposition to it, quite a bit from Graham Baird.’
Sarah nodded. ‘But mostly the coverage is good. Donors outside of Africa like the idea of uplifting local communities by giving people ownership of their wildlife.’
‘Most of my constituents have never seen a rhino, let alone wanted to own one,’ he said.
‘True, but when they see the money rolling in to build the breeding sanctuary, and the dollars coming from tourism, they’ll become instant experts. You have to spread the wealth around, Fidel.’
He held back the retort that instinctively formed on his lips. ‘I hear you.’
‘I’m worried about Graham.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought someone like him even knew what Twitter was. Also, I’m surprised he can even get phone reception at Boulders Camp.’
Sarah took her phone out, switched it on and waited while it connected to the local network on roaming. ‘Bloody hell, Graham’s tweeting again.’
‘What is he saying now?’
Sarah frowned. ‘He says, “#dealwiththedevil – Animals Without Borders charity is sleeping with Moz’s number 1 rhino poacher”.’
‘He doesn’t mention me by name?’ Fidel asked.
‘No, not yet. I’m just scrolling through his earlier tweets.’
‘He’s trying to provoke me,’ Fidel said.
‘Graham’s posted some pics of where he is – a view of yesterday’s sunset from the deck at Boulders Camp, another that show his feet and the waterhole below. He says in another tweet he’s in heaven, with the camp all to himself.’ Sarah tapped her phone’s screen with two fingers.
‘What are you writing?’
‘I’m drowning him out,’ she said. ‘Every time he uses our twitter handle his tweets are seen by my supporters. Fuck him. I’m not going to have him cost us money or followers. And what the bloody hell has he done with my honey badger?’
Fidel settled in to the leather of the Range Rover’s seat and took two small bottles of water from the chilled cubby box. He placed one by Sarah’s thigh, then leaned a little closer and put his hand on her knee.
She glanced at him, then nodded to the driver in front.
‘Roberto is my trusted man. He knows to keep his mouth shut,’ Fidel looked up, to the driver’s rear-view mirror, ‘and his eyes on the road.’
Sarah’s phone beeped.
‘He’s just instant-messaged me,’ she said. ‘He’s seen me tweeting, I bet.’
‘And?’
‘He says: “Welcome back to the lowveld. When you see Costa tell him he’ll be seeing his little brother soon.”’
‘Bastard.’
‘He’s definitely goading you,’ Sarah said.
‘Yes. He killed my younger brother, the only other surviving member of my immediate family.’
‘I seem to remember your brother was a poacher, and either he or one of his comrades shot down the helicopter Graham was in, killed the pilot, and tried to kill Baird as well.’
Costa knew the woman was right, but there was more to this. ‘My brother, Inâcio, was the baby of our family. My mother had him during the last days of the war, before she . . .’
Sarah put a hand on his, which was still on her knee, and clasped it.
‘Before she was killed by the RENAMO rebels. I was a fighter, I had survived the war, but my father had been shot years before and my sister was also dead. I raised Inâcio myself until I married. He was my brother, but in this strange way he was also like my son. I wanted the best for him, better than I had, but he always wanted to be like me, and that is my shame. That is how he came to die.’
‘He chose his own path, Fidel.’
He moved his hand out from under hers and made a fist that he pounded into his own leg. ‘Yes, he chose the path of the hunter, but he died like an animal. Do you know how Baird killed him?’
The woman shook her head.
‘He shot him with a dart full of M99, you know, the opiate they use to drug big game.’
Sarah put a hand to her mouth. ‘
Oh no.’
‘Yes. He had his bag of drugs in the helicopter. Inâcio was not even unconscious. That stuff, it just immobilises the animals. They can see, hear, smell all that is around them, they just cannot move.’
Fidel screwed his eyes shut. He had been through this, over and over, imagining the death of his brother. It must have been, he thought, like the stories the Jesuits had told him of people in the old times, in Europe, who had been mistaken for dead and buried alive, perhaps in a coma, only to wake up and find themselves entombed, waiting to die. He pictured Inâcio seeing the chaos of the crash and the gunfight around him, of feeling the painful prick of the dart. Perhaps his brother knew what had happened and was waiting, hoping, mentally begging the veterinarian to come and reverse the effects of the poison seeping through his body.
Sarah said nothing, her mind perhaps processing the same gruesome thoughts.
‘Baird did nothing. He could have given him the same drug they give to heroin addicts, to reverse the effect of an overdose. The veterinarians all carry that. But he didn’t. He chose to stand there and watch, and wait, as another filthy poacher died in front of his eyes.’
‘It’s brutal, I’ll admit,’ Sarah said.
Fidel slapped his hand on the leather of the seat between them. ‘It is an insult.’
Sarah went back to her phone.
‘What is it?’
She passed him her phone. Sarah had switched to her own Twitter page. He read the latest tweet from Baird aloud.
‘“I repeat I am hereby resigning from my position as assistant veterinarian for Animals Without Borders. They have signed a deal with a poaching kingpin and the charity is guilty of wasting supporters’ funds.”’
‘He’s overstating his own importance – he was only ever a back-up vet, but his number of followers has increased from virtually none to a couple of hundred already. Soon the bloody mainstream media will be on to this.’ Sarah snatched the phone back from Fidel and spoke the words of the tweet she was composing as she tapped the screen. ‘“Graham Baird complains of us wasting supporters’ money while he drank the minibar dry during his recent visit to Cape Town in the hotel where we put him up!”’
