Ivory Ghosts

by Caitlin O'Connell

  I pulled up to the Kongola Community Care office, where a tall, wiry dark-haired young man with a closely cropped beard was leaning against his white Land Rover smoking a pipe. The large British flag on the side of the vehicle reminded me that Craig had mentioned Nigel was British.

  I turned off the Bug and approached the man. He looked me up and down, visibly impressed. I ignored his expression and shook his hand. “I’m Catherine Sohon.”

  “Nigel Lofty.”

  “So sorry I’m a little late.”

  He tipped his sweat-stained slightly crooked cap and smiled through piercing blue eyes and smoke-stained teeth. “Right. No worries. Had to meet with the game guards anyway.”

  This guy seemed like a caricature of a British foreign aid worker. Was he enjoying himself at my expense, or did he just seem too young to be smoking a pipe and carrying all this pomp? It was as if he was trying too hard to play the part.

  He looked at the VW, smiled, took another puff of his pipe, and exhaled. “Those things do pretty well in deep sand, I hear.”

  I nodded. “When it doesn’t disappear into the potholes.”

  “That’s a problem around here.”

  “But not something you have to worry about.” I nodded back at the Land Rover.

  “Hell, it’s nice!” He walked over and opened the passenger door for me. As I got in, he waved over one of the uniformed men. “Got us a meeting with the induna of Liadura Village,” he said to me. “Figured that would be your best introduction to the community.”

  “Sounds good.”

  A thin little man with a starched game-guard uniform walked over and stood dutifully next to the door. He was so drunk he could barely stand up. Dried crumbs of fermented grain sat at the corners of his mouth, and he reeked of alcohol. He had been at the local brew, but somehow his uniform still looked tidy.

  “Christ, Finnius,” Nigel said. “It’s nine thirty in the bloody morning.” Turning to me, he continued. “Ah, right. Catherine, this is the head game guard for the region, Finnius Mplanga.”

  I nodded and held out my hand to greet Finnius. His breath almost made me cough, it was so strong. “Hello, Finnius. Nice to meet you.”

  Finnius shook my hand, smiled weakly, and then hesitated—as if concerned about what impact my job would have on his.

  Nigel waived at Finnius to get in the back as he turned the key, and the turbo diesel engine clucked to life. He slammed the steering wheel as he watched Finnius through the rearview mirror stumble into the back of the truck. “Bloody hell!”

  I had to hold in a laugh at Finnius’s earnest expression, as if he were confused at the stink that Nigel was making over his perfectly fine appearance, ironed uniform and all.

  “Is he always like that?”

  “To be fair, he’s celebrating.”

  “Celebrating what?”

  “He stumbled upon the induna’s son burying three tusks in his yard the other night.”

  I wondered if he was referring to the tusks I had seen in Jon’s office. “Is that a common occurrence around here?”

  “Probably, but being stumbling drunk appears to have its advantages.” He laughed defiantly.

  I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I just smiled.

  Nigel pulled out onto the white dusty track. As he accelerated, he stopped for an old man dressed in a tired suit, carrying a pair of worn dress shoes, which I assumed he felt were too valuable to wear until he got to his destination. The old man climbed onto the back of the truck, nodding his thanks through the rearview mirror as Nigel pulled away.

  We passed a series of small villages, all made of reed and thatch, interrupted every once in a while by a brick school or clinic with a corrugated iron roof along the road. After that, there were long stretches of scrappy crops—mahango, sorghum, or mealies. There were patches of clay soil where deep groves of tall mopane trees looked like enchanted forests guarded by termite castles, multitudes of cicadas blaring as we passed.

  Although I appreciated the absence of small talk, it didn’t feel right not asking a few questions. “How long have you been working in this area?”

  “Hell, hard to believe it’s been two years now.”

  “You must really know it well, then.”

  “Place is a den of thieves. The only thing that changes is the players.” He sucked on his pipe. “They never stick around long enough to get bloody caught.” He smiled. “How about you? What brought you here?”

  “The elephants.”

  “Anything in particular about them?”

  I shrugged. “I just really like them.”

  “You came all the way to this godforsaken place just because”—he tossed his hand—“you like them?”

  I laughed. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be so vague. I’ve always liked big game.” I shrugged. “Ever since I had summer jobs in Yellowstone as a college student and fell in love with elk and the noise of their bugling—so unexpected. And the wolves, of course. Loved it so much, I ended up getting my Ph.D. up there.”

  “So, big game is the draw?”

  “You could say that. But after a while, I had to fly around a lot so I got a pilot’s license. And that became the draw. When I got the chance to go to Africa, I took it.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Kruger. Got to fly a couple of the Kruger elephant censuses. That was really fun. And then I got to do some behavior work with the bulls.”

  “Did it take a long time to get your license?”

  “It wasn’t a big deal to get my license in Wyoming. And flying in the West was great. But it cost a lot to keep up my hours. I hadn’t thought of the practicalities; I just went for the experience because my mentor at the time trained pilots and enjoyed putting the time in with me, hoping I’d take over some of the surveillance flying for Yellowstone one day. When I got to Kruger, they were down a census pilot, and I was in the right place at the right time to get the training I needed for census flying.”

  “That’s how you ended up here?”

  “Pretty much. I’ll also do other things as they come up. Looking at elephant mortalities—counting carcasses if there are any that we find from the census. Maybe have a look at how they died.”

  “We have stacks of blank elephant mortality forms lying around.” Nigel looked at me carefully. “Are you tracking the ivory at all?”

  “I know WIA is interested in how much ivory gets to China from here.”

  “The local activity must be pretty low compared to other places in Africa, right?”

  “Not necessarily. They have good evidence that increasing amounts of the ivory smuggled into China passes through the Caprivi.”

  “Poaching for ivory isn’t a problem in the Caprivi. There just aren’t that many poaching cases. Fortunately, the threat of prison is a real deterrent. The price isn’t worth the risk.”

  “That’s changing fast, apparently. The growing demand in China is driving up the price. And what about trafficking? You just said the place is full of thieves.”

  “Amateurs. It’s all low-volume stuff.”

  “Even the witch doctor?”

  “He’s more interested in human bollock than he is in tusks.”

  “That’s not what the DNA evidence suggests.”

  Nigel gave me a look of genuine surprise. “No?”

  “There was a recent large shipment into Guangzhou via Singapore and Vietnam made up of elephants from Zambia and Angola. My boss thinks they may be using Caprivi as a corridor.”

  Nigel sank deep in thought. After a lengthy silence, he finally responded softly, “Does Jon Baggs know about all this?”

  “He doesn’t believe anything coming out of an American’s mouth, it seems.”

  He laughed and his shoulders dropped. “He’ll warm up. He does that to all the newcomers.”

  “Pretty intimidating.”

  “Like I said, he’ll adapt.” He suddenly changed the subject. “Heard you were the first one to witness the witch doctor’s handiwork the ot
her day.”

  I nodded, not wanting to go into it.

  “He doesn’t shy away from drama.”

  “What does he do with the brain, anyway?”

  “Not sure about human brains, but crocodile brains are very bad juju. They burn them whenever possible.”

  “So, is that the case with human brains too?”

  “Not sure. Maybe for virility? You know, he has the audacity to call himself a fertility specialist.”

  “A fertility specialist?”

  “Get this. He’ll sleep with a guy’s wife for a week, charge him twenty head of cattle, and pronounce the man cured. I tell you, people lose their heads when it comes to witchcraft.”

  “Literally,” I couldn’t help noting.

  Nigel laughed. “We’re looking forward to having you as our pilot.”

  “Who have you used before?”

  “We always used Dr. Geldenhuis or his crony, Alvares, but now apparently he’s too busy to fly for other people.”

  “Too busy doing what?”

  Nigel turned down a narrow track. “Not sure exactly. Tourism maybe.”

  “Interesting.”

  “So why the Caprivi? There must have been a lot of places to go as a pilot.”

  “I like the fact that there are so many borders in such a remote area. Makes the flying more difficult, but the elephant dynamics along borders are more interesting.”

  “What kind of dynamics?”

  “Patterns of elephant movements across Africa are heavily affected by borders. I’d like to think that elephants didn’t have to be impacted by our politics.”

  “Ah, so you’re a fan of Peace Parks?”

  “Yes, but I know it won’t be easy to develop international reserves between countries that have such different economies. Mozambique and Angola have such potential, but after thirty years of war, it’s going to be a challenge.”

  “Yes, the elephants seem to know that Angola is troubled.” He pulled at his beard in thought. “Nice, hey. What will you do after the census then?”

  “Whatever’s needed. Follow up on carcasses that we see. Make sure reporting on mortalities is up-to-date.”

  “So, are you for or against the trade?”

  “I’m trying to save elephants, not get involved in the politics.”

  “The neutral scientist.” He shrugged. “Interesting approach. I assumed you couldn’t get hired in such a position in this country if you weren’t pro-trade.”

  “Let’s hope that’s a reflection of open minds.” I examined Nigel’s profile. His look seemed too manicured to want to be in such an outpost, despite the bushy flair. “What about you? What brought you here?”

  Nigel laughed. “Nothing quite so noble, trust me.”

  “I’d hardly call what I do noble, but anyway, what then?”

  “Escaping my past.”

  I had to give that a nod. “Aren’t we all.”

  “I don’t know. Unless you’re not telling me your full story, it doesn’t sound like you are escaping anything. Sounds like you’re pursuing a dream.”

  “To me, that’s a kind of escape.”

  “I’ll give you that.”

  “Would I be prying to ask what you were escaping from?”

  “My dad was a drinker. And a gambler. He gambled away an inheritance that we all had come to expect. I grew up thinking that my life was set on a certain trajectory. Titles, foxhunts, and the like. But things changed, and all that disappeared overnight. I was forced to look at life differently. Did a little theater for a while. Enjoyed the role-playing. But hanging out with the impoverished theater crowd got old.”

  “Wow. That would be quite an adjustment.”

  “In the end, it was the best thing that could have happened to me. But at the time I couldn’t see it that way. I had a dark couple of years. I became a real rotter.”

  “Sounds like a good purge.”

  Nigel scratched his head under his cap and readjusted it. “That’s one way to look at it.” He slowed, turned a corner, and puttered down a nondescript dirt track. He straddled some deep potholes, but the Land Rover stayed relatively level as it clucked along.

  “Impressive shocks.”

  “Suppose it handles a bit better than a VW.”

  I laughed. “Definitely.”

  We passed a long brick building with windows that had no glass. A group of small schoolchildren in uniforms ran behind the vehicle and laughed. “Makua, makua!” they called out as we passed.

  “What’s makua?”

  “A white person.”

  “Oh.” I nodded.

  Nigel pointed to the school flagpole that had a pair of pants hanging from it. “See those pants?”

  “Yes. What are they doing there?”

  “Schoolteacher from the eastern floodplain. They shot him in the leg as a warning.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Somehow, the Subia get all the teaching positions in the region, and the others resent it. When tribal tensions heat up, this is usually where it starts. In the schoolyard.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “At least that one got away alive.”

  Nigel pulled up to a small reed compound—the induna’s kraal. A frail, dust-covered old man waited on a stool outside the sagging wall, watching our approach. The man Nigel had picked up on the road jumped off the back of the truck. He held his shoes in his arm as he clapped one hand on top of the other in thanks.

  “Go well, Mr. Mazinga.”

  The barefoot man smiled and clapped again before walking off to his destination. I took note of his suit and asked, “Is he another headman?”

  “He’s the chairman of this conservancy.”

  “Interesting.”

  “The conservancy is actually doing bloody well.” Nigel turned off the clucking diesel beast, and we got out. “Many of the others have so much infighting they can’t get anything done.”

  “Musuhili, mudella.” Nigel knelt down and faced the elderly man, clapping one hand on top of the other, using the reverent term for old man, mudella, as the man clapped weakly, mouthing his greeting in return. “How is the induna today?”

  Finnius interpreted the Yeye language for Nigel. “He says that the induna is not feeling all right.”

  “Malaria?”

  The old man nodded.

  Nigel winced in sympathy. “Oh, hell.”

  The old man mumbled again weakly.

  “He asks you to come back in a few days,” Finnius explained.

  “Christ,” Nigel mumbled under his breath, and then spoke up. “Right. Thursday then?”

  The man nodded. “But only if you get his son out of prison.”

  “I am not an attorney.”

  “He was framed. He is innocent and must be released.”

  Nigel bowed his head. “I will certainly look into this matter.”

  Everyone nodded their good-byes, and Nigel took a minute to reload his pipe. “Sorry about that, Catherine. The schedule of this place runs around seasonal diseases, beer batches, and funerals. It’s particularly slow in the wet season. All of my game guards are shivering under blankets with malaria.”

  “Oh, that’s fine, really.” I tried not to sound disappointed, even though every day mattered. And given what I had seen over the border, I was eager to look for information anywhere I could. “Just nice to get out and see what the village life is like.”

  “Reeds, thatch, and disease. Looks like you’ve had a pretty thorough safari.”

  I thought back to what the induna said about his son. “Do you believe the induna? Do you think his son was set up?’’

  Nigel shrugged. “Could very well be. However, the sons of local politicians often think they’re invincible and get themselves into trouble. I’ll make some inquiries.”

  “It doesn’t sound like you believe him.”

  “Hard to say. Will I see you in town tomorrow?”

  “Maybe I’ll stop in on Jon.”

  �
��He’s up in Lusaka.”

  “Lusaka? What’s up there?”

  “Other than HIV and worse thieves than we have here?”

  “Yes, other than that?”

  “He’s pursuing the Zambian witch doctor—the slippery bugger that he is. The scaly anteater apparently has something in its scales to exorcise demons from possessed women.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Tragic, really. But at least since the pangolin is on the red list, it has more legal protection than the African elephant, and Jon can get more traction in making a case against him.”

  “Pangolin—that’s the scaly anteater, right?”

  Nigel nodded. “The witch doctor seems to have a corner on the market.” He smiled. “Must have to do a lot of exorcisms.”

  I was about to say something about the witch doctor’s henchman escaping the previous night and then remembered that that wasn’t my information to tell. Nigel had been so disarming compared with Baggs that I had to be all the more careful about what I said because it was so easy to talk to him.

  I shifted in my seat, pretending to be lost in thought about something unrelated. The sudden distance between us left me thinking about how to make use of the rest of the day. There was still time to pay the Catholic mission a visit.

  “Do you know anything about the Catholic mission?”

  “Just that it’s near the fish farm in town and is run by Father Sebuku. Know him?”

  I shook my head. “I was thinking about volunteering for their Red Cross missions.”

  I couldn’t help noticing a sideways glance from Nigel. “He’d be the man to speak to.”

  “Don’t tell me you also think I’m here thinking I can save Africa?” I asked.

  Nigel laughed. “No, Catherine, no one can save Africa.”

  “You’re sounding more like Baggs than I’d hoped.”

  “Sorry, he’s a pretty influential chap.”

  “I can see that.”

  “As for saving Africans, the Red Cross has put a lot of effort into the HIV problem and humanitarian aid, which is bloody encouraging.”

  “That’s good to hear.” All I could think about was the Red Cross plane at the poaching camp in Angola, and then flying overhead just after Ernest was thought to have been eaten by a crocodile. There had to be a good explanation for a Red Cross airplane being at these sites.