The Eye of the Elephant

by Mark James Owens

"Now this is something you have to be very careful with," I say as I hold up a frying pan with a nonstick coating. "See, it is not an ordinary pan. Food won't stick to the bottom. It's like magic."

  "Oh, a Teflon pan," he nods. I stare at him. How often do you find a man who knows about Teflon, but wonders if you can fly to the stars? More often than you would imagine, I decide.

  All morning the sun shoulders us with heavy heat, but to the west a blanket of dark clouds is draped across the mountains of the scarp. Our temporary base camp is on the other side of the river from Marula-Puku, about fifty minutes downstream. If it rains in the mountains, the river could flood, making it impossible to cross until the dry season. After giving Sunday a few more chores to do, I wander down to the riverbank to see if the water has risen in the last few days. It is hard to tell, so I kneel down in the sand and lay a line of small stones at water level, Each day I will check the stones to see if the water is rising. We cannot yet camp at Marula-Puku; we must stay near the plane to guard it against hyenas and poachers.

  "What are you doing, Madam?" Sunday has come up quietly behind me.

  "Well, Sunday, I need to know if the river is rising, because we will have to leave this camp and move to the other side before it gets too high. I can measure the water level by these stones."

  "It won't be like that, Madam."

  I stand up and look at Sunday. "What do you mean?"

  "Today this river will be here." Sunday points to the water lapping against the sand by our feet. "And tomorrow when the rains come, this river will be there." He points a hundred yards across the floodplain to a spot far beyond the camp and airplane. I look back and forth from the river to the plain. If the river rises that high, the Cessna will float away like a raft.

  "Sunday, you mean the water will come up that far in one day?"

  "Maybe one hour. If these rains come to these mountains, the water, she comes down all together." As if on cue, the clouds to the west release a slow, distinct thunder, which rolls heavily over the hills.

  "Sunday, come with me." Back in camp, I begin flinging boxes open and sorting through gear. "Take everything I give you and put it in a pile under the tree." I separate daily essentials—food, clothing, cooking gear—from valuables—camera equipment, film, tools, spares. Pointing to the latter, I say, "We'll have to carry this stuff to Marula-Puku."

  At daybreak the next morning, Mark and I transport all of the valuables to Marula-Puku camp, which is on higher ground. Leaving the other men at work on the Bemba house, we head down the Mwaleshi to collect the cache we hid last year. I dig out our handmade map that shows how to find it: "Drive 15.6 miles along the north bank of the river to our Palm Island campsite; go 1.3 miles north through the trees, past two large termite mounds; cache is hidden under Combretum obovatum bush."

  In spite of the dense October heat and our race with the rains, the journey along the Mwaleshi is as wondrous as ever. There is still no track, but we know the route now and avoid the worst sand rivers, the deepest gullies, the muddiest lagoons. Puku, waterbuck, zebras, and impalas graze on the broad plains as we drive along. A herd of more than a thousand buffalo shake the earth as they canter across the grassland. White egrets, stirred by the stampede, soar like angels against the black beasts. Small bushbuck peer at us from the undergrowth with Bambi eyes.

  After only thirty minutes of slogging across dry riverbeds and small savannas, we approach a very familiar plain. We turn inland toward a stand of Trichilia emetica trees hanging over a bank. I touch Mark's arm and he stops the truck. Up ahead, under the same trees where the cubs played last year, lies the Serendipity Pride. Two adult males with flowing manes, three adult females, and four stroppy yearlings stare at us from the grass. The young female, the one we called Serendipity, stands and walks directly toward us, her eyes not leaving us for an instant. The males, apparently still shy, slink away in the tall grass. The four cubs trot behind Serendipity toward the Cruiser, and once again in this old truck we find ourselves surrounded by lions.

  Serendipity stares at Mark from two feet away, then smells the front wheel for a long moment as the Blue Pride lions had done so many times. The four cubs—all legs and tails—soon tire of this odd beast with its strange odors of oil and fuel, and bound away in a game of chase.

  We long for the day when our camp will be finished, so that we can spend more time with the lions. It will be fascinating to compare the social behavior of these lions with those we know in the desert. Forget the cache. Flash floods or not, tonight we stay here to watch the lions.

  In the late afternoon they rouse themselves, stretch, and stroll toward the river. Serendipity leaves the others and walks across a small plain to a ten-foot termite mound that towers above the grass. With one graceful leap she springs to the top of the mound and balances on all fours. Her tawny coat blends with the gray clay, as she searches through the grass for any signs of supper.

  After only a few moments she slithers down the mound in one silent motion and stalks through the grass toward the riverbank. The other lionesses raise their heads to full height, watching Serendipity's every move. The cubs stop their play and look at the females. The bank drops down about eight feet and Serendipity jumps out of sight onto the sandy beach. At that moment a male puku emerges from the grass, his black eyes searching the beach. Serendipity vaults over the bank to within five feet of him. In one motion she springs forward, reaching out a powerful paw and tripping her prey. At the same instant the other two lionesses dash from their positions just in time to pounce upon the struggling ungulate.

  In seconds the three adults and four youngsters have their muzzles into the open flesh. The lionesses feed for only a minute, then walk away licking one another's faces. A hundred-forty-pound puku doesn't go very far among seven lions, and they leave the rest for the cubs.

  Serendipity and the two other lionesses walk across the white beach and lie next to the water's edge. On the far bank a small herd of buffalo hold their muzzles high, snort, then disappear into the golden grass of sunset. Beyond them a herd of zebra grazes unaware. The lions will have to hunt again tonight, but prey is plentiful and water laps at their toes. We can't help thinking of the desert lions, who lived for two years eating prey as small as rabbits and had no water at all to drink. What would happen if the Kalahari and Luangwa lions traded places? Could these lions survive in the endless dry dunes of the desert?

  After dark all seven lions cross the river in a long line, and we camp near their Trichilia tree. In the morning, when there is no sign of the pride, we continue our trip down the Mwaleshi to recover our cache.

  Tall grass has grown up along the base of the bush, so the cache is even better hidden than when we left it. We cut the thorn branches free and pull out drums of diesel, jars of honey, jam, and peanut butter, even canned margarine from Zimbabwe. We sling the winch cable over a tree limb and load the drums into the trailer. After a not-so-refreshing swim in the hot river, we begin the long haul back to Marula-Puku.

  Making endless trips up and down the jagged scarp—to collect poles for the hut, to haul more thatching grass, to meet Mark after he flies the plane to Mpika—we race to finish Marula-Puku camp. The heat and flies must be feeding on each other; both have become fat and unbearable. When the hut's mud walls reach eye level, it becomes obvious that, although their spirits and intentions could not be better, the Bembas are not the builders they claim to be. One corner of the hut crumbles before it has dried and we are doubtful the house will withstand the rains. But it is too late to start over, so we smear the cracks and holes with gooey mud and tie bundles of grass to the roof.

  Afraid to stay in our little camp on the far side of the river any longer, we move to Marula-Puku one morning in early November. I am greatly relieved to have all of the gear at one campsite. While Mark joins the hut-building crew, Sunday and I set up our new temporary camp nearby. Sick of making camps, I hope this will be the last one for a while. Once more Sunday and I store the blue trunks in the tent
, hang the cornmeal in the tree, put up the tables and chairs. As we work, white-browed sparrow weavers—the same species that shared our Kalahari camp for seven years—serenade us from a wispy winter-thorn tree {Acacia albedo). In the lower branches of the acacia they too are busy building their nests, but unlike other species of weavers, these seem unconcerned with neatness. They twist grass stems of various sizes and shapes into a messy bundle that looks like something that might be cleaned out of a drain. But their familiar song and perky chirps lighten my heart. If they can sing while they build, then so can I.

  By midafternoon we have all the gear set up at Marula-Puku and I walk to the other side of the island to help the men with the hut. As I kneel in the sand, spreading mud with my fingers, I feel the wind pick up and stir the muggy air around us. A cloud mass looms to the northwest, but such formations have been marching harmlessly overhead for days. Suddenly a hot wind rushes into the valley, ahead of a low, swirling wall of black-gray clouds. Jumping to our feet, we grab gear and supplies and throw them into the unfinished hut. Mark and I run toward the tent, but lose sight of it in the dust and sand. Finally, we stumble over it lying on the ground. Pots and pans, books, chairs, plates, cups, and clothes are scattered for yards around. The sand stings our faces and eyes as we stagger through the storm, chasing bits and pieces of camp and throwing them into the truck.

  The sandstorm lasts for thirty-five minutes and then retreats as quickly as it came. Not one drop of rain has fallen, and the valley is left standing in a still, dry heat. Silently we wander through the remains of our camp, standing up a table here and a chair there. The sparrow weavers are chirping furiously—their nests have been blown to the ground—but the next morning when we rise, they are rebuilding with crazed enthusiasm. I watch them briefly and do the same.

  The ominous date of November 14—when according to British meteorologists the rains begin—is less than two weeks away, when Mark and I drive to the top of a wooded hill to lay out the airstrip. We have chosen this site because it will drain during the rains, making it usable all year. This will be an easy job, I think, but the woods are so thick that it is impossible to see ahead far enough to lay out a straight line for the runway. After pacing off fifty yards, we run into a huge termite mound, so we try another heading and run into a deep gully. Deciding we must do a proper survey, we get the compass and hammer a row of three stakes into the ground every fifty yards, one in the middle of the strip and one on each side.

  About this time a greater honey guide, a small gray bird with a black throat, notices us and gives his distinctive "chitik-chitik-chitik" call, inviting us to follow him to honey. Honey guides lead humans to bees' nests, and when the hive is opened for honey, the birds eat the bees, the larvae, and the beeswax. It is not at all difficult to follow a honey guide. He gets your attention by flitting about in a tree near you, making his raucous call. As soon as you approach, he flies off in the direction of the bees' nest. And just to make sure that you are still there, he stops often in trees along the way, calling over and over.

  The honey guide at the airstrip sees us walking directly toward him and flies about in excited, exaggerated twirls. In this unpopulated area, he can't very often have a chance to lead people to honey, and he is more than ready. Just as he is about to fly to the next tree, we hold up our compass, turn a sharp ninety degrees, and march off in another direction. He is silent for a moment, then flies to a tree in our path and calls even more vigorously than before. Again we are nearly under his perch when we swing ninety degrees and pace off fifty yards in another direction. The airstrip is to be more than a thousand yards long, so forty times we stalk across the woods in one direction, only to change course and prance off in another. The poor honey guide has obviously never seen such stupid people. He takes to flying right over our heads, flapping his wings wildly. Now and then he lands on a limb nearby and glares down at us with beady eyes.

  Sweat mats our clothes and grass blades sting our legs as we trundle along through the trees. Thinking it was going to be an easy job, we did not bring enough drinking water and our throats are burning. Finally, we hammer the last stake into the ground and climb into the truck. As we drive away, the honey guide is still perched on a branch, giving an occasional "chitik-chitik" with what seems a hoarse and raspy voice.

  The Bemba hut, with its scraggly grass roof and big windows framed with palm stems, looks more like a lopsided face with a crooked straw hat than a house. But because we must, we declare it finished. At five-thirty the next morning we are all at the airstrip site, armed with six axes, six hoes, three shovels, and the truck and chains. We have about three thousand small trees to cut down, and three thousand stumps to dig up. The ground will have to be leveled and graded by hand. It is impossible to know where to begin, so we just start slashing, chopping, digging, and shoveling. Two hours later, the temperature is already above 90°F. Mark and I wet our clothes from the jerry can with river water that smells strongly of fish and buffalo dung. The Bembas, born of this heat, smile at this. They are not yet hot. "Wait until noon," they laugh.

  After a while a routine emerges. Mwamba, Kasokola, Sunday, and I cut down the small trees and pull them to the side; Mark and Simbeye follow and yank out the stumps with the chain and truck. The others chop out stumps too large for the truck and fill in holes. In the midday sun the seventy-five-pound chain is so hot I cannot hold it, but all day long Simbeye runs barefooted from one stump to the next, carrying the burning links across his bare shoulders, refusing to let anyone relieve him or even to rest. As we work, the guys sing softly in a language I do not understand, but with a spirit I certainly appreciate.

  To the south we see a flat-topped mushroom cloud rising from the parched earth—the poachers are setting wildfires that burn unchecked across the park. No doubt they are also shooting elephants for ivory and buffalo for meat, yet the game guards have not mounted a single patrol. Without roads or our plane there is nothing we can do to stop the killing and burning. I hack with rage at a small bush; we must finish this airstrip.

  Where is the rain? For days we have worried that it will come; now we worry that it won't. Stranded or not, flooded or not, anything is better than this heat.

  Each day we work from 5:00 to 11:00 A.M. and from 2:30 to 6:00 P.M. Some afternoons I stay in camp by myself, hauling water from the river in buckets, boiling drinking water, baking bread, collecting firewood, and washing clothes. All that is left of the Lubonga River is a few stagnant, smelly pools that we gladly share with the buffalo, puku, and zebras. They come late every afternoon to drink, and frequently I collect water with buffalo standing nearby. They seem to have lost their inhibitions—and so have I, for they used to be the one animal that really frightened me. Shrinking resources make either fierce enemies or strange friends.

  At night Mark and I sleep on top of the truck, where it is cooler than inside the hut. Still, the temperature is often more than 100° at midnight, so we lie under wet towels trying to stay cool. We awake just before dawn to watch the stars retreat into the brilliant colors of sunrise and to see the water birds—saddle-billed storks, yellow-billed egrets, Goliath herons—soar along the river on their way to work. Commuters, we call them. They do not take shortcuts across the bends in the river, but follow its winding course, maybe for the same reason that we would—to get a better view.

  One morning, while hacking at a small tree on the western end of the airstrip, I am surprised to see a straggling line of game guards walking toward us, some in tattered uniforms, others in civilian clothes. Nelson Mumba still has a red bandana around his head, Island Zulu carries the bent frame of a cot, Gaston Phiri totes a live chicken under his arm. Mark and I greet them and explain that we are building an airstrip.

  "We'll use the plane to spot poachers and to count animals from the air," Mark says.

  They nod and he continues. "In fact, we were thinking, if you would help us build an airstrip near your camp, we could use the airplane to take you on patrols in the park." />
  "Ah, but we cannot build an airstrip," answers Mumba.

  "Why not?" I ask. "We'll lend you some tools." I hold up my ax.

  "We are officers; we do not do manual labor," Mumba says, looking to the others, who nod in agreement.

  "Not even if it makes your lives easier?"

  "We do not do manual labor," he repeats. Mark, sensing my rising anger, changes the subject. The new subject is not much better.

  "Are you going on patrol?" he asks.

  Two of the scouts answer "yes," three say "no."

  "Are you going to shoot for meat?" I ask.

  "We have the right, if we want to," Mumba answers in a surly voice.

  Mark explains to them, although we are sure they already know, that according to government regulations no one, including game guards, can shoot animals inside the park.

  They talk to one another in Chibemba, their eyes darting back and forth at us. Mark adds that if they hunt in the park, we will be forced to report them to the warden. This is not the way I want this conversation to go; we want to work with the guards, to encourage them. I try to think of some way to salvage the situation.

  "Look," I say, "we know it's rough living in your remote camp. When we get our project going, we want to work with you, help you. We'll buy you new uniforms, camping equipment, things like that. But in return you must do your jobs. You're hired by the government to protect these animals, not kill them!"

  They talk some more in Chibemba and then announce that they must be going. We shout friendly farewells—"Good luck on your patrol"—but these words bring no response and wither in the heat.

  Mark and I stand, watching the scouts hike over the hill. We disagree about how to fight poaching. He believes that we should get personally involved—flying patrols, airlifting scouts, going on antipoaching foot patrols with the guards. I argue that we should supply them with good equipment and encouragement, but we should not personally go after the poachers, for then they will come after us. Unarmed, we make an easy target. We have discussed these points over and over, but have not come to an agreement.