It was getting hard to see now with the sun completely gone and the heaviness of dusk setting in. It was just getting dark enough to experiment with the night-vision goggles Craig sent up with the camera, so I dug them out of the backpack and turned them on. The waxing moon was just a sliver in the sky, but any bit of light helped improve the resolution of the image that was generated by gathering ambient light and intensifying it.
Light-intensifying technology in night-vision gear had improved since I had used it several years back to track moose in Yellowstone. Either that or Craig had invested a substantial portion of his budget to get me top-of-the-line technology. In Kruger someone had gotten permission to use the same technology our military used in the Iraq War for rhino patrols. This device seemed just as good. It worked like goggles and as an attachment to my camera so I could take pictures at night.
There was a sudden bellow as a couple of young bulls burst through the bush just next to me, one of them almost colliding with the Bug and practically knocking me off my observation post as they hurried to the water. They roared so loudly it sounded as if they were being attacked by lions, or at least pursued by them. I assumed they were just excited about their reunion, but nevertheless I scanned the tall grass behind me. No imminent sign of predators.
But lions were expert at sneaking up on the unsuspecting and, having had a lioness in my vicinity on the way in, I no longer felt comfortable so low to the ground. I moved back inside the car as soon as the elephants settled down.
Most of the best elephant socializing happens just after sunset, which I rarely got to see in Kruger. Things were so regulated there that it was only on special occasions that I got to be out in a remote place like this after dark. It was hard to justify being out late to measure how much of a particular tree species the elephants were consuming. And rarely did those observations coincide with a large elephant greeting ceremony.
When the opening tumult of greeting the new relatives was over, the elephants again relaxed and began the sequence of elephantine “handshakes” by placing their trunks in others’ mouths. Little ones to older ones, sisters, aunts, cousins—they were all getting in on the action. The young bulls then proceeded to engage in sparring matches up and down the river, mucking up the water for everyone else, but no one seemed to care. I enjoyed the sounds of drinking and the splashing of water escaping many thirsty trunks curling up to mouths in a row, looking like a giant sea monster in the night.
A blood-curdling scream emanated from the bank a little ways upstream. I tried to see between the elephant legs to the cause of the upset, when suddenly scores of elephants ran past me on either side, several of them looming over me through the windshield as they sidestepped the car in a hurried retreat, leaving a small group clustered in a panic on the far bank.
A few of the younger elephants in the group were running back and forth with their ears straight out, confused, reaching their trunks up in the air, as if searching for clues on the winds. Two larger females were trying to reach something in the river with their trunks. At first, I didn’t see anything in the water and couldn’t figure out what they were doing.
A small, black, snakelike object stuck up out of the water and went back under. The elephants were trying to grab it. There were splashes and more screams and bellows coming from the water. Then, I realized what was happening. A calf had fallen in and the bank was so steep that it wasn’t able to climb out.
Finally, the two females got down on their knees and were able to wrap their trunks around the backside of the baby and pulled it up onto the bank. The dripping wet baby stood silently, sucking its trunk as the others came over and touched it with their trunks as they rumbled and flapped their ears.
I was so engrossed in what was happening that I hadn’t realized how badly I was getting bitten by mosquitoes. The long pants and socks helped, but the effect of the DEET was wearing off my arms and neck. I needed to leave, but I waited until the elephants left before I packed up my things and made my way back to the barracks in the dark. It was too dark not to turn on my headlights, but I didn’t want to spoil the night, so I drove back using my night vision.
Through the night-vision screen, the bent grass I had driven on was lighter in color than that surrounding it, allowing me to follow my path exactly. I wanted to avoid driving into a warthog hole or over an acacia seedling, the thorns of which would have given me another flat tire. I wound through the tall grass and back to the main dirt road in the dark.
On the road, I could see fresh tire tracks going in the opposite direction, toward the Angolan border. I didn’t remember hearing a vehicle pass. The only thing up there was the border—and poachers.
Chapter 9
I stared at the tracks on the road. Was the ivory from the poached elephants I had seen during my flight being picked up and driven into Namibia at night? Or was another turf battle about to unfold between the Nigerians and the witch doctor? I turned north and followed the tracks, soothing myself with the idea that Gidean and the other rangers might just be out fishing.
Eli wouldn’t want me poking around in any of their business, whether fishing for food or for bad guys. But I didn’t think the others would mind me tagging along.
After three miles, the tracks suddenly veered off onto the floodplain, heading toward the river. I turned to follow them. Whoever it was, they couldn’t have been far. The river was only about two hundred yards away.
I pulled off, checked my holster, and got out, continuing on foot until I could see a vehicle parked next to the river. It was the ministry vehicle.
I walked over to the vehicle, holding my hand on the butt of my revolver. There were no lights on. No signs of life.
I looked into the empty cab of the truck. No guns, either.
I stepped to the muddy river’s edge to see fresh scrapes from the bottom of a boat. Must have been a ministry boat used for their patrols. I listened for the noise of a motorboat engine in the distance, but there was nothing but the occasional snort and splash of a hippo down the river a ways. Gidean had mentioned that they kept a boat right next to the station. Perhaps they kept a second one stashed up here near the border.
Suddenly, my neck was pulled violently backward as a hand gripped my mouth and something was pulled over my head, knocking my night-vision headband to the ground. I struggled to break free, but whoever it was had an iron grip. My head was completely covered in a hessian bag that smelled like rotting meat.
“What are you doing here?” The low, taut voice was definitely Eli’s.
He turned my neck so sharply I wasn’t sure if he was trying to break it. “Who are you?”
He hadn’t recognized me. If he removed the bag, he’d see who I was. That was the easiest path forward.
I reached with my free hand to remove the bag, but my arm was snatched and twisted harshly behind my back. I stood frozen, stomach muscles tight.
“You Zambians think that our elephants are yours to kill?”
I shook my head and tried to scream the word no, but his hand was so tight on my mouth I couldn’t make but a muffled sound.
“You came across the border illegally, didn’t you?” He unholstered my pistol and threw it to the ground. “Tell your witch doctor we know what’s going on. We’ve got Ernest as hostage.”
I was paralyzed with fear and gagging from the wretched stench.
There were other footsteps. And another voice. “What’s happening?”
I was relieved to hear Gidean’s voice. Surely, he would sort this out.
The sound of a whaler approached and Eli cursed. “Pull the bag.”
Gidean pulled the bag off my face and took a step back. “Catherine!” He was flabbergasted. “What are you doing here?”
Unmoved, Eli gripped my neck and lifted me off the ground. “Yes, what are you doing here?” His teeth were in my face. His breath smelled of violence.
The boat slowed down and was about to land.
Gidean stepped forward and whispered
, “Eli, keep an eye on the boat. Natembo needs backup. I’ll deal with Catherine.”
As Eli marched off, I rubbed my neck and mouth.
Gidean put a sympathetic hand on my shoulder and handed me my gun and night-vision goggles. “How did you get here?”
“I followed your tracks.” I caught my breath. “I’m so sorry.”
“Did you see anything?”
“No. Nothing. I just couldn’t help noticing the tracks.”
“Did you see any footprints?”
I shook my head.
“Damn.”
“What happened?”
“We lost the witch doctor’s henchman, Ernest.”
“You lost him? How?”
“Eli was interrogating him.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He was with the witch doctor the other night.”
“So, it was the witch doctor who killed those people?”
Gidean nodded. “He said someone else was with them. A driver. But when Eli pressed him to find out who it was, he jumped out of the boat.”
“And you think he’s trying to escape on foot?”
Gidean shook his head. “Natembo dropped Eli on the bank to look for him, but he couldn’t find him. We think he was taken by a croc.”
“What?”
“There’s a big crocodile that lives on that turn in the river. He wasn’t on the bank, and we saw the splash. We just wanted to confirm that there were no tracks on this side.”
I opened my mouth to ask more questions when the gunfire started.
“Go. You must leave quickly.” He pushed me urgently. “Now!”
I put my revolver back in its holster and ran, crouched, back to the car. I got in as my heart pounded inside my ears.
Dark shadows and quick movements preceded more gunshots. Then some muffled sounds. I fumbled with the night vision and took off in the dark, bumping down the dirt road.
After a torturous drive dodging spring hares on the road, I arrived at my dark barracks and stumbled up the stairs. I switched on my fluorescent light, put the kettle on, sprayed my arms with more repellent, and went out onto the porch.
I lit a candle and soothed myself by listening to the cacophony of frog calls surrounding me. I tried to focus on each kind of call until the shadows that the candle created became unnerving, making it impossible to see into the distance. I blew out the candle and my eyes adjusted to the night as the frogs continued to calm my jangled nerves. The kazoo calls stood out from the water droplet and chime calls at seemingly impossible volumes for such little tree frogs.
The kettle started to boil and I made tea, opened a can of vegetable curry, dumped it into the tiny pot from my mess kit, and walked back outside. Although this was one of the few canned meals that could be eaten cold, I needed something hot after consuming too many crackers and too much peanut butter over the last few days.
In between the frenzied bouts of frog calls, all I could hear was the insistent whine of mosquitoes as they approached my ear. I swatted them away as the frogs resumed their competition. I went inside to stir my food so it wouldn’t burn. When it was warm enough to be considered almost hot, I carried it outside along with a spoon. I ate the creamy curried peas and potato and carrot chunks with relish.
At a sudden rustling noise in the bush, I whipped my head around. But there was nothing but darkness. The frog chorus continued as I resumed eating. There was the noise again. This time, it was much louder, and I turned on my night-vision goggles and looked into the bushes. Nothing but damp vegetation. I turned the scope off and closed my eyes.
Another rustling sound in the bush right in front of me snapped me back to full attention. I stood on the end of the porch and looked back and forth through my green grainy goggles but couldn’t see anything.
Then something large and dark caught my eye at the edge of the drive, just behind the car. I panned over to see an enormous hippopotamus looking like a blimp held up by four short stumps. He was not happy to see me.
He flared his nostrils at me for some time before shuffling off. But he wasn’t the one making the noise in the bushes. I knew I was psyching myself out and needed to go to bed. But the last thing I wanted was to be cooped up in that horrible dank little room wrapped in a mosquito net. As I braced myself for the thought of an icy shower first, I heard a faint noise over the floodplain that grew louder and louder. It was an airplane.
I ran out into the open road and looked up through the goggles and zoomed in, but the plane was too far away and moving too quickly for me to see any numbers. It sounded like a Cessna 182, and for a brief moment, I thought I saw a symbol near the tail—the Red Cross symbol.
Chapter 10
Early Monday morning, a burst of urgent, demonic calls jolted me awake. In the branches of the sausage tree outside, a large troop of baboons were waking up. I had heard them squawk and caterwaul as they settled in the night before, but this sound was different. This was the sound of intense, life-threatening danger, with determined parents warding off the evil threat of a stalking leopard.
Bark! Hoo-ha! The synchronized roaring and screeching pervaded the air, punctuated with a sick guttural moaning. I looked out the window screen and spotted the alpha male in his perch on a low branch, his gaze trained on the floodplain where the leopard must have been. Since my watch said five A.M., I lay back down and fell asleep again.
I woke with a start at seven thirty, thinking about the plane that flew overhead the night before. I had to get to Katima to start asking more questions. And yet, considering what had just happened with the rangers, I probably needed to pay Baggs a visit first.
After a painfully cold shower, I caught my broken reflection in the shattered bathroom mirror. I leaned closer to peer at the fractals rimming my tired eyes. Despite my thinking that I was adjusting, I could see I wasn’t. I brushed a long tangle of hair out of my face and pressed at the tiny crow’s-feet at the corners of my eyes. In just a few days, I was starting to look as haggard as everyone else around at Susuwe.
I threw on a long skirt and blouse and headed out the door. My first stop would be Jon Baggs’s office. Then I’d go to the Catholic mission to see what they knew about Red Cross activities in the region.
As I pulled out of the drive, I spotted Gidean standing on the road, looking like he was on his way to my barracks. I rolled down the window. “Good morning, Gidean. Listen, about last night. I’m really sorry. I should never have been out there.”
“Good morning.” Gidean smiled. “And not to worry. That never should have happened. I am very sorry for the mistake.”
“Well, it won’t happen again.”
“It’s not a problem, really.” Gidean smiled again.
“Did you find Ernest?”
Gidean shook his head. “No, but I’m here to deliver a message from your boss, Craig. He got through on the radio just now.”
“Oh, the radio works?”
“Just got it back in working order.” Gidean nodded. “My cousin fixed it and dropped it off on his way down to Windhoek.”
“Handy. And I’m glad Craig called because I’ve had trouble charging my satellite phone. What did he say?”
“He said that you are to meet with Nigel at nine. He will introduce you to some community members.”
“Oh, I completely forgot that the meeting was today. Can you remind who Nigel is?”
Gidean nodded. “He runs the Community Care program in the region. He’s in charge of the game guard program. His office is just next to the post office in Kongola.”
“That’s right, now I remember.”
Gidean hesitated. “Will you speak to any of the women in the village?”
“I’m not sure. Why do you ask?”
“The women know what’s going on. The induna won’t talk to us about this matter of poaching. He doesn’t trust the government.”
“I see.”
“You see, Catherine, the women won’t talk to us rangers, either. And they won’t c
onfide in a man. A man takes control—answering the questions for the women. It’s too intimidating.”
I smiled, wondering exactly what he was getting at.
“Maybe you can spend some time with those women. Maybe they will tell you who is involved. Maybe they would be willing to give you evidence.”
“I will keep that in mind.”
“I think the women will like you.”
I smiled again. “Thanks, Gidean. I appreciate that.” I waved and drove off toward Kongola, feeling much better about the previous night.
The police gate was positioned at the entrance to Bwabwata National Park, gateway to the bustling East Caprivi, and the last stopping point before a hundred miles of forest. Though only a post office, a gas station, a khuka shop—the local shabeen—carrying the kind of nasty home-brewed beer that I learned in South Africa was almost more flies than beer, and the Community Care office, the place was a hub of activity. Any little bit of legitimate commerce in these locations led to many other kinds of commerce, just as it did at outposts outside Kruger.
There were the guys with the privately owned pickup trucks running a taxi service. There was the convenience shop attached to the gas station, selling greasy fried chicken and Portuguese sausage rolls. There were the wise guys in psychedelic shirts and bad sunglasses trying to make a deal—any kind of deal—including an offer I’d had of diamonds from Angola on my way back from the airstrip. They probably knew not to ask a white woman if she wanted to buy an elephant tusk, but no doubt, if a potential customer had the right look, ivory would be offered as well.
All this took place against a backdrop of throbbing, pulsing African music at all hours of the day and into the night if the beer was ready. With a fifty-liter drum of alcohol that was good for only four days, not much work got done when a batch was served up at ten cents a cup.
Ivory Ghosts Page 6
