Detective Kubu 01; A Carrion Death

by Michael Stanley

  Just look at the Bushmen—amazing small people with the ability to survive in this harshest of environments. Hunter-gatherers, who had lived in southern Africa for more than 20,000 years, over the centuries they had been squeezed by both blacks and whites, the former moving south from central Africa and the latter moving north from the Cape of Good Hope. And the ambivalence remained. Currently there was tension between the Kalahari Bushmen and the Botswana government. The government had removed the Bushmen from the Central Kalahari Game Reserve into settlements to the south, asserting that this would help them to survive and adapt to modern society. Opponents argued that the true reason was to allow diamond interests to prospect on traditional Bushman lands.

  Kubu owed the Bushmen a debt of gratitude. His childhood Bushman friend, Khumanego, had shown him how the desert was alive, not dead as he had thought. He remembered vividly how in one school holiday Khumanego had taken him sweltering kilometres into the and landscape and drawn a circle in the sand a few metres in diameter.

  “What do you see?” Khumanego had asked him.

  “Sand, stones, and some dry grass. That’s all,” he had replied.

  Khumanego shook his head gently. “Black men!” he chided. “Look again.”

  “I see sand and stones, some small and others a little bigger. Also some dry grass.”

  An hour later the world had changed for Kubu. Khumanego had shown him how to look beyond the obvious, how to explore below the surface, to notice what no one else would see. In that small circle thrived a teeming world—ants, plants that looked like stones (lithops, he found out later), beetles, and spiders. He loved the lithops—desert plants cunningly disguised as rocks, almost impossible to distinguish from the real things. They blended into their surroundings, pretending to be what they were not.

  The trapdoor spider also impressed him. When he looked carefully at the sand, almost imperceptible traces of activity clustered around one area. On his knees, Khumanego pointed to the barely visible cresent in the sand. He gestured to Kubu to pick up a twig and prise the trapdoor open. Kubu complied, nervous of what he would find. The open trapdoor revealed a tunnel, the size and length of a pencil, made from grains of sand and some substance holding them together. Khumanego tapped the tube. A small white spider scurried out and stopped on the hot sand.

  “This spider,” Khumanego whispered, “knows the desert. He digs a hole and makes walls of sand with his web. He makes his home under the sand where it is not so hot. He listens and listens, and when he hears footsteps on the sand, he opens the door, jumps out, catches his meal, and brings it back to his home—appearing and disappearing before the insect knows what is happening. Very clever spider. You don’t know that he is there, but he is very dangerous.”

  Kubu thought that the spider and the lithops survived in the same way—avoiding attention by blending into the background.

  It was the experience of seeing so much when there was so little to see that had the greatest impact. Khumanego had taught him to open his eyes and see what was in front of him. “Black people don’t see,” Khumanego had said. “White people don’t want to.” Kubu returned home that afternoon and vowed he would never be blind again. From that day, he had trained himself to be observant, to see what others did not and to look beyond the obvious.

  Kubu was startled out of his reverie by a stretch of corrugation on the road. He owed much to Khumanego. He hadn’t seen him for several years. He should check up on him, Kubu thought, especially with all the problems between the government and the Bushman people. Kubu sighed. Why couldn’t people respect each other? Why did they need to be at each other’s throats so much of the time?

  Kubu continued along the hot, sandy road, leaving a cloud of dust in the still air. He was lucky there wasn’t a car in front of him.

  He wondered about the reason for his trip. A ranger and a researcher had found the body of what they thought was a white man being eaten by a hyena. It puzzled him that there were no missing person reports for a white man, only the usual few of black men, who probably had gone to South Africa in the forlorn hope of making their fortunes. They had also mentioned tyre tracks. Perhaps the labs could match tread patterns, but it was a long shot. The wind did unpredictable things with sand.

  An hour later, Kubu drove up to the entrance to Dale’s Camp. Next to the wooden welcome sign with the letters burnt into it, there was a galvanised steel gate hanging over a cattle grid. He stopped the vehicle. There were no bird calls, just the persistent trills of cicadas in the oppressive air. Kubu found himself oddly reluctant to open the gate. The bush beyond looked no different, and yet it had an unwelcoming feel—a feel of unpleasant secrets to be revealed only at a cost.

  Kubu lingered a few moments with this feeling. He had learnt to trust hunches. Then he shrugged and opened the gate. He pulled through, stopped to close the gate behind him, and drove to the reception area. Three uniformed attendants with huge smiles ran up to open his door and help him with his luggage. They were surprised to find that he was not a white man. Kubu waved them aside and told them he could handle his own overnight belongings. “Yes, sir!” they said, all smiles, but disappointed they were not going to get a tip.

  A few minutes later Kubu stood inside a thatched area, with horns of kudu and eland on the walls, and a huge elephant skull standing in the corner. Soapstone animal carvings clustered on the floor and tables. He paused under one of the ceiling fans that labored to cool things off and sighed with pleasure. He looked around, noticing that the dining area was under the thatch but open to the outside, where there were reclining chairs around the pool. Kubu recovered momentum and walked to the desk, made from a thick piece of mopane wood, skirted with bamboo. The designer African-bush look, he thought.

  “I am Assistant Superintendent Bengu,” he told the receptionist. She had the beautiful features of the Bayei tribe of the Okavango Delta. “I was notified a body had been found near here.”

  “We are expecting you, sir. You will stay one night with us? You have tent number twenty-eight. It’s the last one on the right. It has a good view of the waterhole.”

  “Thank you. Please could you arrange to have two large steelworks sent to the tent, with ginger beer not ginger ale, and extra ice in a bucket? I am going to have a quick shower before lunch. What time is lunch, by the way?”

  “Twelve to two o’clock. The waiter will bring the drinks right away. I will also tell Mr Botha that you are here. He’s the one who found the body.”

  “Thank you. There should be a police Land Rover on its way to fetch the body. Please let me know when it arrives.”

  Kubu picked up his bags and walked to his tent, waving away yet more porters. He was sure he had been given the end tent not because of the view but because the resort would want to keep a potential murder as low key as possible.

  It was a typical ‘permanent’ bush tent, about four by five metres, with a large bed covered with a locally woven bedspread in rust colours. There were two riempie chairs—their bases interwoven with strips of animal hide—with side tables, a chest of drawers with a mirror, a place to hang dresses and jackets, mosquito netting knotted above the bed ready for use, a can of mosquito repellent, a large thermos of cold water, two drinking glasses, candles in candleholders, two boxes of Lion matches. No one wanted the noise of a generator spoiling their bush experience.

  Next to the outdoor toilet, a shower with tall reeds on three sides faced the waterhole. The animals can watch me shower, Kubu thought. The tent opened on to a wooden platform with a rail made from a thick mopane branch. Two easy chairs framed a small table with mosquito coils ready to be lit.

  The receptionist was right—the view was spectacular. The waterhole lay not a hundred metres away, artificially fed, he was sure. Thick reeds flourished on one side, as well as trees and bushes. No grass grew for twenty or thirty metres from the water. It had been eaten and trodden into oblivion by all the animals. Several zebra cautiously moved to the water, and three young giraffe
s loitered in the background, each wanting to avoid being the first to approach the potential dangers of a waterhole. In the heat of the day, few birds were active; only a small flock of guinea fowl clattered about, too stupid to realise that shade is cooler.

  The waiter arrived with the two large tankards. Kubu loved steelworks and wondered why they were not more popular. A tot of cola tonic, a dash of bitters, filled to the top with ginger beer, preferably bottled. He hoped the barman had added the ice at the end so all the liquids had blended together. He disapproved of putting the ice into the glass before the liquids. Kubu poured the first steelworks down his throat, washing away four hours’ dust and dryness. He smiled and went off to the shower.

  An hour later Kubu was sitting next to the pool under an acacia tree, watching a couple of young boys churning the water. He had just finished a delicious lunch—cold meats and pickled fish, tasty salads, fruit salad and ice cream for dessert, followed by a cheese platter. He regretted not indulging in wine, but after all, he was on duty.

  At that moment a white man approached. Big and strong, he had a belly that was beginning to show the effects of beer. He wore the clothes of a game ranger: short-sleeved khaki shirt with green epaulettes, khaki shorts with an old leather belt holding a knife pouch, knee-length khaki socks, and a pair of worn boots. Skin tanned deep brown indicated a man who had spent his life in the sun. The tan highlighted the light blue eyes and short blond hair, as well as a long scar down the right side of his face. Kubu wondered what had caused it—a childhood fall, a bar fight, a sports injury?

  “Inspector Bengu?” The man had the guttural accent of an Afrikaner from South Africa.

  “Yes. I’m David Bengu. My official rank is assistant superintendent,” Kubu said, rising. “You must be Andries Botha?”

  “Ja. That’s me. It was me what radioed you about the body.”

  “Please sit down. Something to drink? A fruit juice or a beer perhaps?”

  “No thank you. I…we…noticed a lot of vultures circling and went to see what the lions had got the night before.”

  “Slowly, slowly, Mr Botha. Before we get to the body, please tell me a little about yourself. What do you do? Do you work here at the game reserve? How long have you been in Botswana? You know, the usual background stuff.” Kubu took a small pad out of his briefcase, clicked his ballpoint, and waited.

  “Ja, fine. I was born in the Northern Cape on a farm between Hotazell and Olifantshoek. I was always interested in animals—we had cattle. But it was a hard life for my father. So many droughts and bad years. Eventually he got a job in Bechuanaland with the Bechuanaland Cattle and Meat Company—now the Botswana Cattle and Mining Company, of course. BCMC. Kept the letters the same. He was a good farmer and was in charge of their cattle herds. I was still young, so they sent me to boarding school in Bloemfontein. Every holiday I came back to Gaborone, where my parents lived. I really liked the bush, so after school I went to Stellenbosch University to study wildlife management. My pa knew the owner of this game lodge concession and asked him if he would hire me when he started the camp here. Mr Baillie offered me a job as assistant manager and part-time ranger, and here I am.” He paused, trying to decide what else was of importance.

  “How long have you been here, Mr Botha?”

  “Oh, it was two years in January.” He nodded.

  “So how did you discover the body? And where is it right now?”

  “Ag, man. We’ve got a guy here from the university studying ecology for Wildlife. We always cooperate with the Department of Wildlife and National Parks. Mr Baillie says it’s very important to cooperate with the government and the locals.” He hesitated and glanced at Bengu to see if he had given offence. But Kubu just nodded and went on writing. “Anyway, this guy wanted to go to the Kamissa waterhole—about an hour from here. Apparently he thinks Kamissa is special.”

  “Who is this guy?” Kubu interrupted.

  “Oh, Dr Sibisi. Bongi?” Andries paused. “Ag nee wat, I don’t remember his first name. His last name is Sibisi.”

  “Did you ask him why he thought Kamissa was special?”

  “Ja. Complicated stuff with satellites and so on. Better ask him yourself if you want the details.”

  Kubu suppressed a smile. He suspected that Andries did not know how to interact with a smart academic who was also black.

  Fifteen minutes later, Kubu had extracted the details of the find: how they had seen the vultures and found a hyena eating a human corpse; how they had noticed some marks in the sand and had found tyre tracks, some of which had been brushed over; and how they had covered the body with a heavy tarpaulin because they thought it better to leave it where they found it.

  “Wouldn’t the hyena tear the tarpaulin off and drag the carcass away?” Kubu asked.

  “Ja. But we left two of my rangers there overnight to make sure it didn’t steal the body. They’ve been there all night. We should go there now. If we wait too long, it will be dark before we get back.”

  Kubu sighed, thinking he would prefer to sit by the pool sipping some decent South African sauvignon blanc. He decided he could wait until their return to meet Sibisi. Better to talk to him alone. “I was waiting for the police vehicle, but it must’ve been delayed. Can you arrange transportation for us? When do you think we’ll be back?”

  “About six, if we get going now.”

  Kubu sighed again. “Okay, we’ll leave in fifteen minutes. I have to get my camera and things. Please tell reception to send somebody with the police Land Rover when it comes, to show the driver the way. Also, please ask them to arrange for Dr Sibisi to meet me after dinner.”

  Andries did not look at all happy at being ordered around. “One other thing,” Kubu said. “Please have reception pack some cold drinks for us. I guess your rangers out there could use some food and something cold as well.”

  Nearly an hour passed before they reached the Kamissa turn-off, which was nothing more impressive than multiple tyre tracks in the sand. It wouldn’t be easy to find, and Kubu was glad that he had asked Andries to supply a guide for his colleagues. The waterhole lay half a kilometre or so further on at a low point of the dry river. At the end, the track snaked between some large thorn trees and ended in a small turning circle, where one could sit to watch animals drink. Kamissa turned out to be nothing more than a collapsed seep-hole half filled with muddy brown water. The noise of the truck startled a small group of gemsbok, and they jumped away stabbing the sky with their javelin horns.

  “This is the Kamissa waterhole,” said Andries. “It’s one of over fifty pans in the Khutse area. They were part of a river system that flowed north to the Makgadikgadi long ago. The river dried up, but the pans are important for the animals. The body’s in a tributary watercourse about a kilometre away through the dunes. We’ll avoid the vehicle tracks they made and drive up the side here.” He put the vehicle in four-wheel drive, engaged low range, and headed up into the dunes at a fine pace, unconcerned about Kubu’s large, albeit well-padded, frame being flung about in the vehicle as they hit bumps and sand ridges. He smiled a little and increased speed. “Need to get those men their lunch and drinks,” he said by way of explanation.

  At last they descended into a narrower dry watercourse and drove a short way before stopping. There was a small tent underneath some trees and a tarpaulin stretched between two of them. Two rangers stood up and walked towards the Land Rover. On the other side of the watercourse was another tarpaulin on the ground with sand piled around its edges. Andries turned off the engine. There was dead silence. A shimmer of heat made the scene seem insubstantial.

  “This is it,” said Andries. “The body is under the tarpaulin, and if you walk up the dune on the left, you’ll come to the tyre tracks. They carefully smoothed everything out on this side so you can’t tell that any vehicle has been there unless you know where to look.”

  Kubu heaved himself out of the truck and stood, carefully taking in the scene.

  “What are you looking
for?” asked Andries.

  Kubu said nothing while he stretched and eased the creases from the trip out of his large frame. “Everything,” he said at last. This seemed to him a complete answer, and he walked over to the tarpaulin and asked the rangers to remove it. As the tarpaulin came off, he took a few deep breaths. He did not like corpses under any circumstances. As corpses go, however, this was not too bad, since virtually no flesh remained. Even the skeleton barely looked as though it belonged to a human, so many bones were either missing or detached from the torso.

  Ensuring he didn’t move anything and leaving as much as possible of the area around the body undisturbed, Kubu took several rolls of photographs.

  As he finished his task, the throaty noise of a vehicle with a damaged exhaust disturbed the desert quiet. Everyone looked back down the river. A beaten-up police Land Rover appeared, mirage-like, following the tracks of Andries’ vehicle. “About time,” Kubu muttered. “We need some help.”

  Three people emerged from the vehicle. The driver, a constable from Gaborone, was tall and lean, his uniform stained with sweat. Next to him was a ranger; Andries’ guide no doubt. Behind them was a fiftyish white man, wearing khaki slacks and a dripping shirt already turning brown with sand and dust. He wore dark glasses and a broad-rimmed Tilley hat to protect his bald head. Dr Ian MacGregor was one of the three police pathologists who performed their gruesome rituals at Princess Marina Hospital. Kubu liked him. He was competent, called a spade a spade, and was an accomplished watercolour painter of birds and Kalahari landscapes. Kubu was very fond of the painting MacGregor had given him of a crimson-breasted shrike—one of the area’s most beautiful birds—emerging from the slender branches of a Kalahari sand raisin bush.

  “Afternoon, Kubu. What have we here?” Kubu smiled to himself as he heard the Scottish burr. MacGregor had lived in Africa for thirty years, but spoke as though he had just arrived from the Highlands.