“So today when that boy stole the case, many others saw this thing happen, there are always others who see, and there are always those who know who did this thing. So I simply told these men where we would be having our dinner tonight, and I knew if they could find this boy, and the thing that he took, it would be returned to us, just as they would want us to do for them in return.” He smiled. “Ubuntu.”
Ubuntu. I would not forget it.
Tuli Block is the name given to a small, rugged block of land that pokes out from the far eastern tip of Botswana. It is bordered by the great Limpopo River with geography oddly reminiscent of parts of Arizona or New Mexico (except for the herds of elephants and giraffe that roam wild there). From Tuli Block one can see South Africa to the south and Zimbabwe to the north.
Tuli Block was where Piksteel and Thandile Chikosi had told me I’d find Matthew Moxley.
Tuli Block was where I had to go.
Getting back to the hotel after experiencing ubuntu at Lelapha in Langa (not a sentence you hear every day), and bidding Joseph and Cassandra a fond farewell, I returned to my room to do some work. First I called Darren Kirsch. I hadn’t heard back from him before I left for Africa, and I wanted to find out what he had for me on the licence plate belonging to the ninja turtle in the balaclava. But I only got as far as the constable manning the front desk phone who told me Darren was out of town at a training seminar. Hopefully he was learning about making timely responses to the requests of sexy private eyes.
Next I reached Clara Ridge’s answering machine and left her a message telling her what I’d found out so far and that I was, one way or another, on my way to some place called Tuli Block in Botswana, hot on the trail of her son. Finally I contacted Roy Hearn and asked him to perform some magic. He definitely came through, getting me a seven a.m. South African Airways flight to Johannesburg, connecting to a twelve-thirty flight to Tuli Block on Botswana Air, and a reservation at the main camp of the Mashatu Game Reserve in Tuli Block.
I was set. I packed my carry-on and large, soft-sided duffle, arranged a wake-up call, admired the twinkling lights of the V&A Waterfront for the last time, and fell into bed for a deep, deep sleep.
The flight to Joburg—as Johannesburg is sometimes known—was two hours long and uneventful. When I checked in for my connecting flight to Tuli Block, I was pretty pumped to see that Roy had gotten me assigned to seat 3F on the Air Botswana flight. It seemed his connections had gotten me bumped into first class, and I wondered what first class, Botswana-style, would be like. I could have kissed Roy Hearn.
Eventually Flight 216 was called, and, keener than I sometimes am, I was first at the gate. The woman there took my ticket and directed me through a door behind her, which put me outdoors where a white-gloved man pointed me to a huge waiting bus, the kind with an accordion extension at its back end, like one of those Slinky dogs. I figured, as at many large airports around the world (almost all of which seem to be under interminable reconstruction), the passengers for certain flights had to be ferried to their plane rather than the plane coming to them. Hoisting my bags in front of me I boarded the bus, found a seat, and waited for the other passengers.
And waited.
And then the bus doors swished shut.
There were no other passengers.
Maybe they’d taken an earlier bus?
Several minutes later the bus pulled away from the terminal and began its long journey past a United Nations of planes with tails, wings, and noses painted in countless patterns and colours denoting their airline or country of origin. As time passed and the bus rumbled along, the planes gradually became smaller and smaller, from jumbo jets to smaller jets to propeller planes, until we finally lurched to a stop in front of a wee little white plane about the size of a dragonfly with a blue stripe and no more than seven windows down each side. At the back hatch, opened to reveal a set of Munchkinland steps, was a young man in a white shirt with official-looking insignia on the chest and shoulders, smiling widely and at the ready to hand me a bottle of water as I boarded. I did my best to return the smile, accepted the water, scaled the steps, and crouched down to avoid hitting my head as I entered the plane’s body. Somehow I couldn’t quite believe that I was about to fly across South Africa and into Botswana in this…this…tsetse fly.
Seat 3F was not only in the back row, it was the back row.
I could have smacked Roy Hearn upside the head.
I generally like to fly. I like what it accomplishes for me. In a matter of hours I can be transplanted from freezing prairie plain to golden sandy beach. Who wouldn’t love that? Sure, if I had access to Star Trek technology and could be transported from place to place without having to fly, I’d probably do that. Until that happens, I’m okay with planes, but not when they weigh less than I do. I like big planes. The bigger the better. Somehow, for me, when it comes to aircraft, size does matter.
The captain did some kick-the-tires-check-the-windshield-wiper-fluid type stuff and eventually squeezed himself into his seat at the front of the plane, which was, incidentally, within arm’s reach of my own. He looked back at me with a welcome-aboard nod and smile. Yeah, sure, okay, ahoy and all that, but I know you’re the same guy who was handing out water and stowing luggage a few minutes ago, and I’m not happy about it. I watched as he took off his captain’s hat and regarded the instrument panel in front of him while sipping from a half-empty bottle of Orange Crush. I was being piloted by the Doogie Howser of Botswana Air.
It seemed as if I was to be the only passenger when, at the last minute, through the magnifying-glass-sized window, I saw a tiny van, not unlike Joseph’s combi, pull up next to the plane with an admirable screech. For some reason I had the feeling I was about to see Cassandra Wellness again and a smile cracked my waxen, I-don’t-like-this-plane face.
The smile was short-lived.
A cold sweat painted my forehead as I watched a familiar figure step from the vehicle and head for the aircraft.
Chapter 10
By the time our putt-putt plane bumped to an anticlimactic halt outside the Limpopo Valley Airfield’s sole, open-air, thatch-roofed building, the only things I knew for sure about the other passenger on the flight from Johannesburg to Tuli Block were that his name was Jaegar, he was German, and he was the same tree trunk of a man who’d boarded my South African Airways flight at Sal Island. In the time since that hazy, middle-of-night, middle-of-flight experience, I’d actually begun to doubt myself, considering that perhaps I’d been overly paranoid in thinking that this complete stranger was giving me the evil eye. I hadn’t seen him since, and really, how likely was it that some fellow on Sal Island could have anything to do with me or the case I was on? I’d been painting him with a wide brush of discrimination, thinking he was a bad guy just because he was big and muscled with beady eyes, had a mean slant to the thin line of his mouth, and had a permanently disagreeable expression on his face. But now I was back to thinking maybe I hadn’t been so far off base after all. What was the probability, on a continent of over thirty million square kilometres, that he and I would end up being the only passengers aboard Watch-Your-Head Airlines heading for Tuli Block without there being something more to it? Of course it was possible—but not bloody likely.
When we were safely harnessed into our seats and high above the scrub of the African plain, I had tried to engage him in conversation, but he had only responded with grunts or nods or shakes of his melon head in the manner of someone who does not really speak the language he is trying to use. He did say a few guttural-sounding words at the beginning of the trip, but that was about it. I suppose it could be that he only spoke German. But then how did he expect to get around this continent in which English and countless African dialects were the major languages spoken?
Once we landed, the pilot directed us to the thatch-roofed terminal. I got the distinct impression that the airport officials—of which there were only two—had been at home tending cattle or working in their fields only minutes be
fore the plane arrived, at which time they’d slipped into their well-worn uniforms, hopped aboard whatever transportation was available, and headed for the airport to do their jobs. After being processed through Botswana customs by these two fellows, we were greeted by a big black man, who told us his name was Garry (even though his name tag said Ghakarhi), and had us sign a waiver (which I read very carefully and which did nothing to ease my discomfort).
Garry led us out the front of the open-air building to a waiting Land Cruiser Jeep. The uncovered vehicle looked as if it’d come from the set of M*A*S*H. It had two tiers of blanketed seats behind the front one and an easily accessible shotgun strapped to the dashboard. I wasn’t anxious to know what that was for.
Jaegar was first to climb aboard and took the rearmost seat. The way he spread out his gear I took to mean he did not want me joining him back there, so I settled into the middle-tier seat. Garry dumped his massive bulk behind the right-side steering wheel, and off we went. Seconds after we took off, I noticed another, exceedingly thin, man hop up onto the back rumble seat behind Jaegar. A stowaway? An African desert pirate? I craned my head to look back at the young man. He gave me a thumbs-up sign along with a wide, gap-toothed smile. I later found out the guy’s name was Tumelo, and he came with the vehicle, much like any other accessory. He was referred to as a “tracker,” but his job entailed everything from vehicle maintenance to meeting the varied whims of the guests to helping Garry spot wildlife during safari.
We were told the trip from the landing strip to the main camp of the Mashatu Game Reserve would be forty-five minutes. The journey took us up and down deep gulleys, over dried-up riverbeds, and through an obstacle course of ring around the acacia-tree-bushwillow-and-African-wattle rosie. Although the sky was run through with high, wispy clouds, the sun was beating down on us with ferocious intensity, and I soon pulled from my knapsack the Tilley hat Anthony had convinced me to buy. It had seemed ridiculously expensive for a hat I wasn’t convinced I’d really need or ever use again, but my mentor had assured me it would become my best friend in Africa, and I was beginning to see why. It also afforded me a jaunty, Great-White-Hunterish look that I rather fancied. I quickly forgot about the heat and Jaegar and the bumpy road when, less than ten metres from our vehicle, I spotted my first elephant!
For the balance of the trip to the camp I was transfixed and awed by the sights and sounds around me: elephants, impala, wildebeest, and too-numerous-to-count varieties of birds. None of which were behind the bars of a cage. Oh my, Aunty Em, I’m definitely not in Saskatchewan anymore.
Mashatu is nicknamed the Land of the Giants because it is home to seven of Africa’s giants: the African elephant, the lion, the giraffe, the baobab tree, the eland (an antelope), the ostrich, and the kori bustard (some kind of bird). It’s a privately owned wildlife sanctuary of twenty-five thousand hectares situated at the confluence of the Shashe and Limpopo Rivers, and rich with ancient archeological sites. This is not the Africa of steamy, moist jungles with chattering monkeys swinging overhead from leafy vines that many of us grew up seeing on TV, but rather the Africa of spectacular, wide open scenery, of blistering, dry heat, and scrubby, desert-like topography upon which these remarkable giants are free to roam.
The camp itself was a series of low-ceilinged buildings hugging the bushy banks of the sluggish Limpopo. It blended so seamlessly into its surroundings that when our Jeep topped a small hill (after turning left at a marking post invisible to all but the trained eye), the camp seemed to appear out of nowhere. Although it had seemed to me that Garry had been following a haphazard, roundabout route to get us to Mashatu, he must have known exactly where he was going because, as promised, it took us just under forty-five minutes to get to the camp from the airfield.
The Jeep pulled up to the front of the main building (which looked a lot like the thatched airport terminal), where awaiting us was a collection of people, some white, some black, some in uniforms, some in safari gear, everyone wearing a hat.
“Good afternoon, and welcome to Mashatu,” said a tall stick of a man with a hooked nose, balding head, and a surprisingly pale complexion, given where he worked. “I’m Richard Cassoum, the camp manager.”
As Jaegar and I stepped off the Jeep, our knees a little jerky from the trip, a short, middle-aged woman in a nondescript uniform handed each of us a chilled champagne glass filled with cool water. Oh mama, that tasted good!
“Good trip?” Richard asked with a piercing stare and a wan smile.
“Yes,” I answered.
Jaegar grunted a bit.
Although I was up for more water, we apparently didn’t have time to dither.
“Garry will show you around the camp and then to your rooms,” Richard told us. “Afternoon tea is served on the terrace at half-past three. Your first game drive commences precisely at four o’clock.”
I looked at my watch. It was already three. They weren’t kidding around here.
Garry took us on a quick tour of the place—at one end of the camp were the kitchen and staff areas, outdoor dining area, the bar, guest lounge, and lunch and breakfast terrace; at the other end were the fourteen guest cottages, with two separate suites per building. All of it was surrounded by a high fence to keep the animals out. Jaegar and I were shown to our rooms and told to unpack, get cleaned up, and make our way to the terrace for afternoon tea. Skipping tea in favour of a shower didn’t seem to be an option.
“May I have the key?” I asked Garry as he was about to leave after showing me the amenities of my impressively large room.
He gave me a strange look and said in his blunt accent, “We can get you a key. You want a key?”
I didn’t want to ruffle the order of things or seem like a complete safari camp virgin, but c’mon. “Oh…well…are there keys?”
“No one to take things around here,” he said with a twinkle in his chocolate-covered-cherry eyes. “Someone steal something, there are only so many suspects. Just us. So no one steals.”
Was this the ubuntu thing again? I didn’t quite buy his theory. I knew Mashatu was remote, but between staff and guests in fourteen cottages, it might not be as easy to catch a thief as he thought. Maybe I’m just jaded.
“You want a key?” he asked again.
Prepared to be a good sport, I shrugged my shoulders and said, “No, that’s okay. If I want one later, I’ll call the front desk.”
He chuckled. “No phone.”
Whazzat? Where the hell was I? “No phone?” My eyes made a quick survey of the room, and indeed, there was no phone. I was guessing high-speed Internet access was out of the question too.
“No phone,” he confirmed. “You get some rest and come down for tea soon, okay? We leave at four o’clock sharp, okay?”
“Okay.”
When Garry left, I took another tour through the well-lit, airy rooms of my new African quarters. There were two three-quarter beds—made up with crisp, fresh, white linens and impala fur pillows—pushed together to make one large bed. On the wall behind the combined bed were two huge, exquisitely framed black-and-white prints: one of a rather pensive-looking lioness, the other of a powerful elephant that seemed to be debating a charge at the photographer. There was a large full bathroom and, for some inexplicable reason, right next to it, a second smaller half bath. Running across the full width of the front end of the space was a lounging area with cushioned rattan lounge chairs and a daybed littered with more impala fur pillows, overlooking what appeared to be a jungle of bush through a wide expanse of tinted windows. I slid open one of the sliding glass doors, prepared for the exotic and cacophonous sounds of Africa, but instead found only a heavy quiet layered with an oppressive heat that flowed through the protective screen like warm syrup.
In addition to the photos over the bed, the room’s other walls were covered with more art, mostly replicas of African tribal relics, and on the tile floor were rugs made out of the omnipresent impala fur. (They sure don’t think much of live impala around here,
I thought to myself.) Overall, the place had a warm, outdoorsy feel to it. I liked it a lot and could easily picture myself spending hot summer afternoons in the comfort of the air-conditioned room, lazing upon the daybed, jotting down my thoughts of the day, sipping a cool citrus drink, watching wild animals pass by my window. But there was no time for that now. It was tea time!
An amber sun lolled low on the endless African horizon when Garry maneuvered our open-air Jeep up Disappointment Hill (named by a filmmaker when he came upon the rare sight of a pair of mating leopards silhouetted against the rising moon—unfortunately he was out of film). He pulled to a halt at its summit, and we fell out of the vehicle, our bones rattling from two hours of rough driving. Our tracker, Tumelo, hopped from his perch in the rear like a sprightly gazelle. He pulled down the tailgate and, with a magician’s flourish, withdrew a freshly pressed, white tablecloth from some hidden spot next to the tool box. He spread the pristine cloth over the tailgate and proceeded to lay out a buffet of scrumptious finger foods and the makings of a fully stocked wet bar. I grinned to myself, thinking: this is safari, Russell Quant style.
My companions were an American couple from the Boston area, Gladdy and Stuart, and four Australian twenty-somethings. When we’d loaded ourselves onto the Jeep, I’d allowed them the upper-tier seats, which gave me the opportunity to sit up front with Garry. I was hoping to befriend him and pump him for information. However, I’d found it difficult to do any pumping during the safari itself, what with the noise of the shaking vehicle. And when we’d finally pull to a stop, Tumelo or Garry having spotted a lion or leopard or cheetah or kudu or jackal or guinea fowl, I knew it was time to be silent and focus on the fauna. Now that we were on half-time break, however, my chance had come.
Sundowner Ubuntu Page 14
