She nodded, grateful.
Once Johannes had seen Crys back, checked the doors and windows and left, she locked the door, and climbed into bed. She thought she’d fall asleep at once, but that didn’t happen. Her mind was up to its usual tricks.
She’d been in South Africa three days and in that time, she’d been followed by a man she’d taken for a pickpocket, someone had trashed her suitcase, and now someone had been going through her chalet while she was stargazing with Johannes.
And then there was Michael. She was doing the same thing Michael had come out here to do. And then he’d disappeared.
It wasn’t a prescription for sweet dreams.
Chapter 6
Crys was dressed and showered before dawn, then went and sat on the porch to watch an amazing sunrise. The sun’s color was different from what it looked like in Minnesota. Here it was fiery orange. Perhaps it was the sand in the air.
She inhaled deeply through her nose. A South African expat friend of hers in Minneapolis had once told her that Africa had a unique smell. Sitting there, she immediately knew what he meant. She tried to find words to describe it, but couldn’t find any to do it justice: earthy, sweet, rich? Each of these words was part of the smell, but not all of it.
She closed her eyes and listened to the calls of unfamiliar birds. Two overpowered the rest. The first was a raucous, repeating call, made by a brown, grouse-like bird with a reddish beak. It was quite tame and jumped onto the porch, presumably to look for crumbs. The other bird was a dove of some sort. Its call sounded something like “my FA-ther, my FA-ther” and went on and on—it could become very irritating if you were trying to sleep in, she thought.
She’d been sitting for only a few minutes when an open Land Rover pulled up, and Johannes jumped out, a big smile on his face.
“Morning,” he beamed. “Another beautiful day in paradise. Are you ready to go? The light will be perfect in fifteen minutes or so.”
Crys picked up her camera bag and stepped off the porch. Johannes opened the passenger door with a little flourish and closed it behind her as she sat down. She wondered if he did this for all women, or whether he was trying to impress her.
“How long will it take to find some rhinos, do you think?” Crys asked as he climbed in behind the wheel.
“Shouldn’t take long, once we’re outside the electric fence.”
And he was right. They’d only driven for about five minutes beyond the gate before he stopped and pointed into the bush. “There’s a big, white-rhino male with no horn. I’ll drive until the sun’s behind us. That’ll give you the best light.”
He drove slowly around some bushes, looking for the ideal spot.
“Rhinos are nearly blind, but they can see movement,” he said. “That’s why, if you’re on foot and a rhino charges, you shouldn’t run. Just stand still.”
Crys looked at him to see if he was joking.
“It’s true,” he said with a smile. “But it would be nearly impossible to do. They can weigh up to four tons.”
She put the zoom lens onto the camera, wondering whether she would be able to outrun a rhino.
“You can’t outrun a rhino,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “But it doesn’t matter how slow you are, as long as you can run faster than at least one other person.” He looked at Crys, serious for a moment, then burst out laughing. “It’s okay. You’ll be safe. Let’s go.”
He moved the Land Rover into a gap between two bushes and turned off the engine. The light was glorious, and the various greens of the bushes were rich and saturated with color. The rhino paid no attention, so Crys had plenty of time to snap away with different zoom lengths and exposures.
“Do you have any that still have their horns?”
“Ja, there are some we’re about to harvest, but we’ll have to look for them. I know where they were yesterday, but today...” His voice trailed off as they drove back to the dirt road.
A few minutes later, Johannes pulled off the road and again they were bouncing through the bush.
Suddenly he stopped. “There!” He pointed straight ahead.
Crys peered through the bushes but couldn’t see any rhinos. “Where?”
“Straight ahead. Twelve o’clock.”
She searched again, then saw them. Three big ones, all with their horns intact.
“Hold on,” he whispered.
The Land Rover moved forward, rocked its way over a fallen branch, then stopped about twenty yards from the small group. Again, Crys took dozens of pictures, thankful for digital technology.
Eventually, the light lost its early-morning richness, and they headed back to the lodge for breakfast.
* * *
Crys and Johannes were the only ones at a table that had more food than they could eat in a week: various fruits, cereals and cold cuts, three different breads, a plate of cheeses, together with orange juice, a pot of tea, and a pot of coffee.
The moment they sat down, Boku appeared. “How would you like your eggs, madam?”
“None for me,” Crys replied. “There’s more than enough here. Thank you, Boku.”
He nodded and asked the same question of Johannes, who just shook his head.
Crys was halfway through a large bowl of fruit salad, when a man appeared in the doorway. Johannes beckoned him into the room, and he whispered something into Johannes’s ear. Johannes nodded, thanked the man, and sent him on his way.
“Well, I don’t know what to say,” he said once the man was gone. “They can’t find any tracks out of the ordinary around your chalet.”
Crys could almost hear the question tacked on to this—Did you really see someone? He didn’t ask it, but she began to doubt herself.
They ate in silence for a while. Then, Johannes stood up. “Now, please excuse me. I’d better get to work. The chopper will be here about five o’clock. You should take long pants, a long-sleeved shirt, and hiking boots if you have them. And a dark jersey as well. If you don’t have any of that, I’m sure I can find something that would work. Also, make sure you spray yourself with mosquito repellent. There’s been an outbreak of malaria not far from here.”
“No problem, I have all those things,” Crys said, smiling at him over the rim of her cup. “And thanks for the photo op this morning.”
He smiled back and left her to finish her coffee.
* * *
Crys had never been in a helicopter and couldn’t wait for five o’clock that evening. At four-thirty she went and sat on the porch of her chalet and started sorting out her photos. Every few minutes, she’d look up into the blue sky in the hopes of seeing a chopper approaching.
She heard it before she saw it—the wap-wap of the blades growing louder and louder. A few moments later, it came into sight, and in seconds it was hovering over a concrete slab about a hundred yards from the chalet. It descended slowly and settled down, blowing clouds of sand in all directions.
She picked up her backpack and camera bag and headed toward it. Halfway there, she met up with Johannes and another man.
“Ready for the big adventure?” Johannes asked.
Crys nodded. “Can’t wait. And it’ll be my first helicopter ride.”
“This is Bongani,” he said, indicating the man beside him. “He’s our senior guide. He accompanies our guests on our safaris. He’ll be going with you.”
“To keep an eye on me?”
“Absolutely.” Johannes’s face was serious. “I don’t think you really understand what you are getting yourself into. It could be very dangerous, and I don’t want a dead journalist on my hands.”
“I can look after myself,” Crys said firmly.
But then doubt crept in. Michael had been a war correspondent in Afghanistan, and it seemed he couldn’t look after himself.
She bit her lip.
Johannes was
watching her, seeing her hesitation. “Look, you have no idea,” he said, shaking his head. “But Bongani knows the ropes. He works with the anti-poaching teams when he’s not busy with us. Hennie’s the team leader. Do exactly as he says and remember: this is not a picnic. If you find poachers, there’ll be shooting, and the bad guys won’t stop to check that you’re a reporter.”
“I’ll be careful.” Crys made sure her tone was as business-like as his. “I promise.”
He patted her on the back. “Time to go.”
They walked over to the chopper, where the pilot was standing outside.
The man shook hands with Johannes and nodded at Bongani. They chatted for a few minutes in Afrikaans. Then Johannes turned to Crys.
“Crys, this is Frikkie van der Merwe. Frikkie: Crys Nguyen from Minnesota in the States. She’s writing an article on rhino poaching for National Geographic.”
They shook hands.
“Jump in next to me,” said Frikkie. “The others are waiting. It’ll only take about fifteen minutes to get there.”
* * *
Crys was so excited she could hardly sit still. The roar of the engine, then the liftoff, the tilt forward, and they were away, climbing to what Frikkie told her was fifteen hundred feet.
“Look over there,” he said through the headphones. “Buffalo. Two to three hundred.”
From that altitude, it was difficult to identify the dark patch on the ground as a huge herd of animals. It looked more like a ridge of rocks.
“Elephant,” he said, a little later, pointing ahead.
There was a small herd clustered around a waterhole. As the helicopter approached they moved away from the water and headed for the bush.
“Scared of the noise,” he said.
Crys was in heaven. All her life she’d dreamed of the wildlife in Africa.
This could challenge my love of wolves, she thought.
All too soon, they were descending into a small clearing with a group of tents at one end. As soon as the rotors stopped, a man in camouflage clothes walked over and opened Crys’s door.
“Hennie van Zyl.” He shook her hand. “You must be Crys.”
She nodded. “Thank you so much for letting me join you.”
“To tell you the truth, I didn’t want you along. It’s too dangerous. But Anton can be very persuasive.”
“I thought Johannes arranged it,” Crys said as she disembarked.
“No. It was his father who called us to ask. We always try to help him out.”
She smiled, but wondered why Johannes had told her that he’d made the arrangements.
“Okay, Crys,” Hennie continued. “Here’s the deal: things may happen out there in the bush tonight. Maybe we’ll meet poachers, maybe not. Either way you can write about what we do, but no names and no details we don’t approve. If you don’t agree, you’ll wait at camp and can chat with us when we come back.”
Crys didn’t like being restricted like that, but she realized she didn’t have an option. “Okay, agreed,” she said, but wondered what it was he wanted to hide.
He nodded and took her to an area next to the tents. A group of men were lounging around—some smoking, some cleaning their guns. They all looked at her as she walked up. No smiles, no greetings.
“This is the chick that Anton wants us to take tonight,” Hennie told them. “Her name’s Crys.”
“Thanks for letting me tag along, guys. This chick is working on a story for National Geographic and wants to see all aspects of the war on poaching.”
There was no response from the men.
“Crys, have you ever used night-vision glasses?” Hennie asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence.
She shook her head.
“They give us a better chance of seeing anyone out there.”
“How do they work?”
He dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. “Not important. Have you ever used a firearm?”
“Yes, many times.” She looked him squarely in the face, expecting skepticism.
“What sort?”
“Mainly .22 long-range bolt-action. I compete in biathlons.” She wondered if he knew what that was. “But I’ve also used several other rifles at a range.”
“Have you ever been shot at?”
“No. And I want to keep it that way. How often do you encounter poachers on these patrols?”
“No poachers for about a month, but fifteen dead rhinos—shot, then the horns cut off with a reciprocating saw.”
“What happens if we run into poachers?” she asked, wanting to know the protocol.
“Try to kill us,” one of the men muttered. “Maybe not you. They’d want you for something else—”
“If they spot us,” Hennie interrupted, “they’ll probably shoot. They don’t want to be caught. Some of them even have AK-47s.”
She knew Hennie was trying to scare her out of going. But her mind was made up. She was going to do this. She felt her adrenalin start pumping.
“You don’t use bulletproof vests?” she asked, keeping her tone casual.
“Too cumbersome for the bush.” He held up a rifle. “Take this .303. It’s also bolt-action. Only has four bullets before you have to reload. Even if you have to shoot, it’s unlikely that you’ll fire more than once or twice—either he’ll be dead or you will. Here are a few more bullets, just in case. I hope you don’t have to use it.” He dropped them into her hand.
“Here’s the safety catch. You release it like this.” He demonstrated and then reset it. Then he thrust the rifle into her hand. She thought it felt like a lump of lead compared to her Anschutz biathlon rifle.
“If you shoot any of us, you have to buy the beers.”
Finally, there was laughter from the men. Crys realized it was at her expense.
* * *
There were seven in the group. Crys would go with Hennie, Bongani, and a tracker named Kai—a short man with almost Asian features. Ariko, a National Parks ranger, was leader of the second group. The other two were Sampson and Thabo—both National Parks rangers and trackers.
“We’ve all been hunting poachers for several years,” Hennie said as he made the introductions.
“If it’s okay, I’d like to interview them all when we get back,” Crys said.
“We’ll see what they say,” replied Hennie. He didn’t sound optimistic.
He called the group together, then pulled out his radio.
“Radio check.” He clicked the transmit button. Several radios buzzed. “Okay. Use the radio only when needed—if you see anyone, hear anything, or get shot at. Also, if you find a rhino alive or dead.”
Crys didn’t have a radio, but everyone else plugged in their earpieces and adjusted them until they were comfortable.
Hennie glanced at Ariko, who nodded. They’d clearly done this many times—except now they had an American journalist along with them. Crys breathed deeply. She didn’t want to cause any problems…or get shot.
“Okay, Crys,” Hennie said, taking a step toward her and standing slightly too close for her comfort, “last chance. Are you sure you want to do this? You can easily change your mind—stay here and be safe.”
Crys wished she could tell him about the one-woman war she’d waged in northern Minnesota against the wolf poachers, and some of the risky things she’d done to thwart them there. Maybe he wouldn’t just see her as some chick who was in the way. But she told no one about that period of her life, and that wasn’t going to change.
“Not doing that. I’m sure I want to go.”
“Have you peed?” Hennie asked. “Can’t do it out there, you know—attracts lions.”
Crys’s mouth fell open. But he smiled. “Just kidding. Let’s go.”
Chapter 7
As Crys walked, all she could see were surreal shapes of trees
and bushes and white images of impalas and other animals that she couldn’t identify. It was a strange feeling, as though she was half-blind. Fortunately, when she looked at the others in her group, she could make them out clearly—all were obviously human.
She wondered whether the poachers also had night-vision goggles. It was a scary thought. If they did, she and her group would be sitting ducks. And lions and other predators possessed natural night vision. She kept glancing around, scared half to death, but determined not to show it. She had to trust that Hennie knew what he was doing.
Suddenly, Crys heard something behind her. She jerked round. It was only Bongani, closer to her than she’d thought. She took a deep breath and moved on.
It was hard going. Crys struggled to walk quietly because the night-vision glasses didn’t show dead branches lying in her path. So, she began to mimic Hennie’s steps, trying to put her feet where his had been. Sometimes, they had to work their way between thorn bushes that grabbed their clothing, then wouldn’t let go. Once she tripped and had to save herself by grabbing a branch. Hennie swung around but didn’t say anything. Crys could sense his irritation.
Progress was slow, but not random. Hennie knew where a ranger flying a microlight patrol had spotted a black rhino earlier in the day. It was close to where the most recent kills had been. He was hoping that the poachers had stayed around to bag another horn—another fat paycheck.
After a long hour, Hennie called a stop by raising his hand and looking back down the line. Crys took a few gulps from her water bottle and chewed on a power bar. Hennie indicated that the group should huddle around him. Shielded from prying eyes, he checked his GPS to make sure they were on track.
“Okay, listen up,” he whispered. “We’re about half a mile from where I think the rhino is likely to be. We have to be even more careful now. Keep at least ten yards behind the person in front. Bongani, you take up the rear and keep a lookout behind.”
Bongani nodded, and Crys felt a surge of adrenalin. She wondered if this was how her father had felt when he was stalking Vietcong. It must have been terrifying doing this day after day, knowing that you wouldn’t hear the shot that killed you. She shuddered.
Shoot the Bastards Page 6
