Survivor, followed by his four companions, crosses the Fitwa River near Mvumvwe Hill and walks east through the mopane forests. Once in a while they stop to feed, but mostly they keep moving. By the time they reach the plains, miles of young green grasses march across the savannas in endless parades. Survivor sees massive herds of fifteen hundred buffalo and several hundred zebras grazing the new grass, which is surging with more nutrient per volume than almost any plant in the valley. He watches other elephants walking onto the plains from the west, south, and north. Not all of them have migrated to the mountains; some have moved south and north along the Luangwa River. But now most of them—small groups like his own, solitary males, and family units of females—move out onto the expansive plains.
By mid-January about 80 percent of the North Luangwa elephant population has assembled on the grasslands. Even though three-quarters of them have been slaughtered by poachers in the last fifteen years, it is still incredible to see three thousand elephants strung out in herds along thirty miles of plains. One Tusk and Long Ear's females join other bond groups to form large aggregations. Perhaps the grass is too tempting or perhaps they feel safer in numbers, but the elephants leave the sanctuary of the tall grass and feed in the open. Almost like the old days, herds of a hundred elephants stroll gracefully through the grass in long gray lines.
One day, feeding on a soggy plain, Survivor sees a female elephant running at full speed away from several males on the other side of the savanna. Instantly he and his four companions run toward the commotion, their feet sloshing and sucking up the mud. When they arrive, eight young males in their twenties are pursuing the female, who is twisting and turning as nimbly as an elephant can, to escape. One male finally catches the exhausted female and, placing his trunk over her back, attempts to mount her. Another male rams him in the side with the top of his head, and the female dashes off again.
This chaotic scene is not necessarily the way elephants mate. Before poaching was so intense, when a female came into estrus she would make every effort to avoid the young males until the arrival of a musth male—a fully mature, sexually active male more than thirty years old. The two of them would form a consortship for three to four days, during which he would guard her from other males. The pair would mate occasionally and feed together in a relatively peaceful setting.3
But most of the musth males in North Luangwa have long ago been shot by poachers. Survivor has not seen one in several years; perhaps all of them are dead. Without a musth male to protect and mate her, the female has no choice but to succumb to these inexperienced bullies. During the next four days she is mated by five different males. She spends most of her time trying to escape them and rarely has a chance to feed. It is not certain that she will conceive under these conditions, and even if she does, it will not necessarily be by the best and strongest male.
Even though aggregations of elephants moving across the plains may resemble the great herds of yesteryear, they are not the same. An elephant's ivory grows during all its life; so does its wisdom. Most of the musth males and matriarchs are dead, and along with them much of the knowledge, experience, and memories of ele phant society. This younger generation carries on in the tradition of the past as best it can, but the social system seems in large part to have died away with the numbers.
If the rains are heavy, the plains become waterlogged by February. Survivor's group moves westward to the fringes of the savannas. They make forays onto the plains as the rains allow, still feeding mainly on the lush grass and its nutty-tasting seeds. But almost with the last raindrop, the grasses dry and wither. By April, Survivor is on his way again toward the mountains. There is compensation for the drying grasses; soon the marula fruits will ripen and fall to the ground. And Survivor knows where the marula trees are.
10. Eye of the Dragon
MARK
Late afternoon. Distant shouts. Young raw voices, male, floating In the heat. Are they angry, or Bored, or is it the heat shout ing through them?
You forget where you are sometimes, Where you started from.
— JOYCE CAROL OATES
WE SIT HIGH UP in our Unimog, in the early dry season of 1988, eyeing a pole bridge in front of us that sags across the deep stream cut like a wet spider's web. In the back of the Mog are bicycles, sleeping bags, mosquito nets, camping mattresses, boots, first-aid equipment, food, and other supplies for the men of the Nsansamina and Lufishi game scout camps.
This equipment is not coming a moment too soon. The scouts must start patrolling. Having wiped out most of the animals at the fringes of the park, the poachers are striking right at its center. North Luangwa is bleeding from the heart. Each volley of gunfire that we hear, and each cloud of vultures that we see, reminds us that the last of the elephants are dying.
By comparing our aerial wildlife censuses with one flown in 1973 by a team from the United Nations Food and Agricultural Organization, we estimate that poachers have already killed more than twelve thousand of the park's seventeen thousand elephants, about three of every four, and a thousand more are dying each year. Since 1973 between seventy-five thousand and one hundred thousand elephants have been poached in the Luangwa Valley as a whole; that's roughly one for every word in this book Perhaps twenty thousand to thirty thousand elephants are left in Luangwa, and no more than five thousand in the North Park. At this rate they will all have perished in four to five years.
Before we can expect the Mano scouts to go after poachers armed with military weapons, we must equip them properly. We are hoping this Mog-load of supplies will help motivate them.
The Mog weighs more than six tons empty. Its load of tools, winching tackle, camping gear, and game scout supplies brings its total heft to almost eight tons. The poles that make up the floor of the bridge are no thicker than my calf; they span the stream, thirty feet across, bank to bank. A few smaller limbs laid crosswise on top will help distribute the truck's weight. Even so, nearly four tons will come to bear on the poles under the wheels on each side as we drive across. From my seat I can see through the bridge to the stream, eight feet below.
"If the Mog breaks through this pile of poles, we're going to have a tough time getting it out of the stream," I say, leaning my elbows on the steering wheel. "And if one side breaks through and not the other, it'll roll off and end up on its top in the water." Delia and I climb down from the cab and search for several hundred yards upstream and down for another way across, but there doesn't seem to be one.
With a stick from the woods I measure the distance between the Mog's two front wheels, and compare it with the width of the bridge. The truck will barely fit, and the two right wheels will bear fully on a single pole on the upstream side of the bridge. Meanwhile the left wheels will track back and forth between the outside pole and the one next to it on the downstream side.
I scramble down the steep bank and examine the underside of the bridge, looking for rot. The bark on the timbers disintegrated long ago and the wood is peppered with holes from sawdust bee-tles. Other than that they look fairly sound, though none of them appear strong enough to support the Mog. Nevertheless, we will have to give it a try. If we can't get these supplies to the scouts, there is no hope of protecting the elephants.
Delia signals me into alignment with the narrow bridge, then wades into the stream to keep her eye on the poles as the Mog's weight comes to bear on them. At the first sign that one is giving way, she is to wave me back, although there will probably be little warning before the truck breaks through.
I shift to low-low and creep forward at less than one mile per hour, watching out the window to align my right front wheel with the extreme right edge of the bridge. The heavy wheel finds the butt of the outside pole and drives it into the ground as the truck crawls forward.
Pow! Crackle! Snap! The poles complain as they bow under the weight. I stamp the clutch pedal down, hit the air brakes, and look down at Delia. Peering at the sagging underbelly of the bridge, her jaw rigid, she is waving me forw
ard.
I open the door and jump down to look for myself. The truck's front wheels are already warping the poles badly, but they do not seem to be splitting yet. With the turbo diesel at dead idle, I let out the clutch and the Mog creeps forward.
As I reach the center of the bridge, more shots ring out from the overstressed wood. Ka-pow! The shattered end of a pole flies into the air and the Mog lurches to the left, swaying back and forth, up and down, on the bridge—which seems to be trying to catch its breath. I put my hand on the right door handle, ready to jump clear if the truck rolls left off the bridge. If it rolls right, toward the driver's side, I will have to stay inside.
"Stop! STOP!" Delia shrieks, waving her arms.
The Mog sways as though on a rope bridge. Its left front wheel has broken one pole and is forcing two adjacent ones apart. I sit quietly for a few seconds while the bridge settles down. Then, with Delia signaling, I switch the dashboard toggle to all-wheel drive, turn the steering wheel left, and reverse. Aided by traction from the other three, the left front wheel crawls slowly back up onto a pole. But now the right front tire is half off the right side of the bridge.
I see no sense in sitting at the center of the span waiting for the thing to collapse. I ease the Mog forward, its engine growling amid the gunshot sounds of the breaking bridge. As we teeter along the outside poles, it sounds as if we are driving over a bed of firecrackers. At last the truck's front wheels reach solid ground and, gunning the engine, I pull clear of the matchstick bridge. After their mauling by the Mog, the poles are even more of a jumble. We will have to rebuild parts of the bridge to get back to Mano. And someday soon we will have to make a proper crossing here.
We camp for the night in the cool, sweet brachystegia woodlands along the stream. Beneath a full moon we swim in the clear water, drifting with the current among moss-covered boulders. There are no crocs to worry about in this montane climate high above the valley—or hippos, for most have been hunted to extinction. We hang a mosquito net from the tailgate of the Mog and sleep with our heads in our backpacks to keep spotted hyenas from biting our faces.
The next morning we "mog" along a track that according to Island Zulu has lain unused for two decades. It isn't a track really, just a path of lesser resistance along which there are smaller trees, an occasional old stump, and slightly taller grasses than in the surrounding forest. Using the Mog and its bull-bar, we bulldoze brachystegias and julbennardias up to six inches thick, crowd past heavy branches, climb over logs, and cross more pole bridges. Although it is tough going, the temperature is pleasantly cool, with fog swirling through the trees and the sun showing through occasionally as a vague silver disk above us.
It is still early when we roll into the Nsansamina camp—little more than three small mud wattle and thatch houses set on a bare earthen clearing in the forest. The fog is lifting; the sun streams rich and golden through puffs of white cloud to the verdant forest below. Three scouts are sitting on squat, hand-carved stools around a small campfire. Its smoke curls up to the blue sky, like a gray rope climbing through the still morning air. One of the scouts is tending a steaming pot of sweet potatoes with a bright green banana leaf for a lid. The other two men are playing musical instruments—one, a thumb piano; the other, a sort of single-string guitar with a gourd base. Behind the men is their fowl's roost, a miniature thatched rondavel set on stilts with a ladder leading to the door. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, the fourth guard stumbles from one of the huts as I switch off the truck.
"Mashebukenye, Mukwai!" We shake hands with Patrick Mubuka, the Camp-in-Charge, and each of the three scouts. For the next few minutes we squat at their fire, inquiring about their health, that of their families, and any problems they might have. Their problem is survival. They have too little food, no medicine, no transportation, no backpacks or camping equipment, and very little money. They have two, maybe three, rounds of ammunition for two rifles that half-work, if they work at all.
"Sa kuno—come over here, please. We have some things for you." The scouts assemble next to the Mog as I climb aboard and begin tossing down boots, sleeping bags, camping mattresses, mosquito nets, first-aid supplies, and even bicycles, which came all the way from the United States. Instantly they are the best-equipped scouts in Zambia. None of the others have even a full camping kit. They clap their hands in thanks.
I am busy assembling a bicycle when a small boy with a big grin sprints past the Mog. Proudly stretched across his chest is a T-shirt with the menacing face of a bulldog and "Go, You Hairy Dogs!" stenciled on it. An instant Georgia fan! On his heels is another child in a shirt with bright red flowers and yellow designer pants decorated with flamingos. Squeals of laughter draw me to the fowl's roost, where Delia is surrounded by women and children. From a big cardboard box she is dispensing clothing, medical supplies, coloring books, and crayons.
The last thing out of the box is "Luangwa Lion," a puppet who tells the children he needs their help to conserve the animals of the valley. The lion explains that he and the other lions live together in communities, similar to villagers in a chiefdom. These communities of lions and other animals are becoming more and more rare, because many men are killing them. So few are left in Africa that people all over the world consider those in North Luangwa priceless natural treasures.
The lion tells them: your fathers have a very important job to do: they must protect all of us animals in the valley from poachers. Remember, you can shoot an animal only one time and then he is dead and gone forever. His meat and skin can be used only once. But if you keep us alive, you can show us to tourists over and over again and each time they will pay to see us. We are worth more to you alive than dead.
As we are climbing into the Mog to find a campsite for the night, the middle-aged wife of one of the guards calls to me. She cannot speak English, so she takes me by the hand and tugs me toward one of the small huts nearby. At the doorway I duck under the thatch into the dark interior. Even before my eyes adjust to the gloom, I can hear death on the breath of her child. Calling to Delia to bring a flashlight, I kneel down beside the girl. She is perhaps twelve years old. As I reach out to put my hand on her forehead she draws back, her eyes round with fear.
"Mararia," her mother says matter of factly; then to the girl, "Owensee—doctor." And the girl lies back on her grass mat.
Delia arrives with a flashlight and our medical kit. I switch on the light and look into the girl's yellow eyes as she pants with the fever, her lips parched and cracked. I feel for her liver; it is like a lump of cork under her hot skin. The girl will be dead within hours unless we treat her now, although neither of us is a medical doctor.
"Delia, go to Patrick Mubuka. He's the only one who speaks English. Tell him to get the women to bring cool water and some cloths. We've got to bring her fever down right away or she isn't going to make it."
While waiting for the water, I dig out a syringe, a vial of soluble chloroquine hydrochloride, and some aspirin to break the fever. When Delia returns we put wet cloths on the girl's forehead, hold her up so that she can drink and take the aspirin, then I give her an injection of chloroquine.
"If this is chloroquine-resistant malaria, she's probably not going to come right. If it isn't, she has a chance," I say to no one in particular. I pat the girl's arm as we turn to leave, but she does not respond. I should give her some chloroquine pills, but we have run out of them. Before driving away I promise the mother, through Mubuka, that I will bring some more medicine soon.
The next morning we set off toward Old Lufishi—and run into a wall of thick brush only four hundred yards beyond Nsan samina. We've had enough of bush bashing, so we drive all the way back to Mukungule and hire fifteen ax men to clear a fifteen-mile track between the two camps and to build another stream crossing.
While the track is under construction, we drive back to Marula-Puku and return with medicine for the sick girl at Nsansamina. Nine days later she has recovered, the new route is open, and we continue our journey.
At Lufishi we give out more sleeping bags, T-shirts, and prophecies from the lion puppet, then return to Marula-Puku to rest and resupply before visiting Mwansa Mabemba and Chilanga Luswa camps.
We have been away for the best part of three weeks, sponging off in cold streams and the Mwaleshi River as we drive camp to camp delivering equipment to game scouts and their families. Both of us are looking forward to a hot bath as soon as we get home. Along with the gear we hauled to Zambia, we brought a bathtub that I have recently mounted in rocks in the corner washroom of our bedroom cottage. This will be our first opportunity to use it. At the workshop I pull on the Mog's airbrakes, switch off, and while the guys unload our gear, Delia and I grab four kettles of hot water from the fire at the kitchen and head down the footpath to the bedroom.
I set my kettles aside, light two kerosene lamps, hand one to Delia, and open the door so that she can enter the dark cottage and bathe first. She shuffles around the stone wall to the washroom, feeling her way in the lantern's dim light. I have just closed the outside door when I hear the clatter of Delia's kettles on the floor, followed by a screech. Before I can react she sprints out of the washroom, nearly knocking me over.
"Mark! There's a lizard in the bathtub!" she quavers.
"Is that all? I thought you'd been bitten by a snake. What's the matter—you like lizards."
"I do," she says, "but this one is as long as the tub."
I switch on a flashlight from our dressing table and inch quietly around the wall into the washroom, aiming the beam at the bath tub. Two red, beady eyes glow above a huge, blunt reptilian snout. A blue, forked tongue flicks toward me like a bolt of lightning. The thing grasps the edge of the tub with scaly feet and lunges at me, hissing like a ruptured steam pipe, its long dragon's tail lashing about.
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