Shoot the Bastards

by Michael Stanley

  “Oh, they do, do they? And what do you think?”

  He shrugged and looked away. “Come. We need to go.”

  He led the way through the bush to the helicopter, which was standing in the clearing, its rotor turning slowly. Crys climbed on board and, a minute later, they were airborne and on their way.

  She stared out the window on the trip back to the farm, but she saw nothing. She was totally lost in her thoughts. As the chopper touched down, it felt as if it had just lifted off.

  Johannes was there to meet them. He offered his hand to help Crys out, but she avoided it and jumped down instead. He hesitated a moment, then thanked Frikkie and nodded to Bongani.

  “I’m relieved you’re safe,” he said as they walked back to the chalets. “How did it go?”

  Crys didn’t really want to talk about it. “It was very interesting and very frightening,” she said. “I’m pleased I went, though.”

  “Did you run into any poachers?”

  She glanced at his serious expression. She suspected that he knew exactly what had happened. That Hennie had radioed him that morning or perhaps even late the previous night.

  She nodded. “We did.” She took a deep breath. “They killed four.”

  “Good.” Johannes gave a small nod, looking straight ahead. “Perhaps they’ll learn the risk isn’t worth it.”

  She didn’t respond.

  Crys felt his hand on her shoulder. It was only a light touch, but it was unwelcome. “I’m impressed you’re willing to go out and see what actually happens on these patrols. Most newspaper people seem to look it up on Google and then file their reports.”

  She nodded again. His hand dropped away.

  “Tomorrow, we have a safari going out,” Johannes continued, his voice brighter. “You’re welcome to join it. The numbers aren’t finalized yet, but there’ll probably be about eight guests in two game-viewing vehicles—tourists who want a taste of the wild.” Then he smiled wryly. “Perhaps they should have gone out with you last night. That was probably more wild than they’ve ever dreamed of.”

  Crys didn’t respond to his joke.

  “We’ll go to an area bordering Kruger. It’s private, so we can set up a camp there.”

  “How long will we be there?”

  “Four nights. I’ll be the leader. Bongani will be my head ranger and back me up.”

  Crys was tempted. However, four nights was quite a long delay in her search for Michael—a search that so far seemed to be leading nowhere. And she was still feeling burned by the events of the previous night.

  But a reporter had to be careful not to judge—no matter what they’d seen or experienced. It was the only way to gain trust and get to the truth. She forced a smile. “That’s great. When do we leave?”

  “Straight after breakfast. You’ll notice the other chalets will be occupied tonight.”

  She thanked him and headed back to her quarters as he made his way to the house.

  “Dinner’s at seven. See you there,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  She waved to indicate she’d heard, but wasn’t sure she’d go. She needed some time to herself.

  * * *

  Crys sat on the porch and tried to digest what she’d seen—to make sense of it. But the same kaleidoscope of thoughts and images kept going round and round in her head. Eventually she went to look for Bongani. He’d been on patrols before. Maybe he could help her understand what it was all about. And she also wanted to ask him about Michael.

  She found him working on one of the game-viewing vehicles.

  “Bongani, I don’t know your last name,” she said as she approached.

  “It’s Chikosi.”

  “Are you busy?”

  “I’m just setting up this Land Rover for the trip tomorrow. Can I help you with something?”

  “Can I talk to you for a few minutes?”

  He hesitated, then nodded. “We can go over there.” He pointed to a bench in the shade of a tree with a wide-spreading crown.

  “Bongani,” she began after they’d sat down, “one of my colleagues from National Geographic stayed here about six weeks ago. His name is Michael Davidson. Did you meet him?”

  Bongani shook his head. “I saw him but didn’t speak to him. He was doing the same as you—writing a story about rhinos.”

  “Do you know where he went when he left? We’ve lost track of him.”

  He just shook his head again and looked down at the ground. “No, I don’t. Sorry.”

  She suppressed a sigh. Every possible avenue to trace Michael seemed to lead to a dead end.

  “Another thing,” she said after a moment, “you’ve been on those anti-poaching trips before. Is it always like that?”

  “No. Most times we find nothing. Maybe a dead rhino with the horn cut off. Then we try to follow the tracks of the poachers, but they usually get away. They have vehicles not too far away.”

  “Did you…?” she stopped. Crys wondered if she could ask the difficult questions she had in mind. But she knew she had to. This story wasn’t some interest piece. It was important; big. And that meant asking the hard questions. “Did you ever kill someone before?”

  Bongani sat stone-faced. Crys thought he wasn’t going to answer. “Yes,” he said at last. “Just once.”

  She suddenly realized that last night may have been as hard for him as it had been for her. “What do you feel about it, Bongani? Is it right to torture and kill people to save animals? Is it worth it to fight for them like that? That man we left for the hyenas—”

  “He knew what would happen if we caught him.” Bongani’s words were clipped, hard. “He accepted the danger.”

  She didn’t think she was getting through to him.

  “Look, where I live, in northern Minnesota, we have wolves. They’re wonderful animals. Smart and beautiful. Poachers hunt them, and they’re endangered. I tried to stop the poachers. I sabotaged their snowmobiles, shamed them in the media, and so on, but I never wanted to…to kill them. But now I wonder, if there were only a few wolves left, would I be willing to do that?”

  Bongani turned to face her. “Crys, you don’t understand at all. This isn’t about rhinos or wolves or some other animal. It’s about money. Poachers take on the job for money. They don’t care about the animals. Most of them can’t get work. They can’t make a living, can’t support their families. What they get paid for one rhino horn will support their families for several years. Of course, they’re willing to take the risk. And you probably would, too, if you were desperate like they are.”

  Crys wanted to reply, but she was a journalist. If someone begins talking, you let them continue. She waited, and he went on.

  “It’s not a question of right or wrong. The poachers see it as a matter of survival. Their own.”

  “I’m confused. Why do you go on anti-poaching patrols if you are so sympathetic to the poachers?”

  “For the same reason they poach—I need the money for my family. For my village.”

  “But that man yesterday. The one on the ground…” She paused to let him speak.

  He opened his mouth to respond, but then just shook his head and stood up. “I have to get back to work.”

  * * *

  When she returned to her chalet, Crys pulled out her laptop and rattled out her first report for the Duluth News Tribune.

  But when she’d finished, she wondered whether she should send it. She knew what would happen if she did. Some readers would be appalled by the torture. Others would cheer that the poachers had been killed. For them, saving a species was worth the loss of human life.

  She closed the lid of her laptop and went out onto the porch. The relentless sun was baking down and the bush was shimmering in the heat. Nothing moved. Even the birds had stopped calling. She sat down and let her mind wander, hoping it would l
ead her to a decision.

  Most of the afternoon had passed before she finally sent her piece. She felt good, finally making the decision to do so—to say what had happened and let people form their own opinions. After all, that was her job.

  In the end, Crys did go to dinner. She wanted to learn more about the area they’d be visiting on the trip. And she was hoping it would lead to another piece for the newspaper. At worst, she’d see more of the African bush without being in the firing line of rhino poachers.

  During the meal, Crys mentioned that she’d written her first article.

  “You didn’t mention any names, did you?” Anton asked sharply. “I vouched for you, you know.”

  “No, I said I wouldn’t, so I didn’t. I keep my word, Anton. But I did report what happened.” She paused, looking from Anton to Johannes. They concentrated on their plates. “Even the torture.”

  Neither Anton nor Johannes said anything. Their meals seemed to be occupying all their attention. So, it was as she’d guessed; they had heard all about it. And neither looked upset.

  Crys finished her dinner in silence and excused herself before dessert.

  Man or Beast? It’s a War Out There.

  Crystal Nguyen, South Africa

  There are about 25,000 rhinos left in the world, most of which are in South Africa. In 2016, the country lost over 1,000 of them, mainly white, or square-lipped, rhinos. The reason? Poaching for their horns.

  In places like Vietnam and China, powder from rhino horn is thought to cure a variety of ailments, including cancer. Vietnamese yuppies snort the powder to get high. And some think it is a potent aphrodisiac.

  So, it is not surprising that people are willing to pay a lot of money to get it. In fact, ounce for ounce, rhino-horn powder is more expensive than gold. A big horn has a street price of around a quarter of a million dollars.

  Enter the poachers. With that sort of money around, poverty-stricken Blacks are willing to risk their lives for a payoff of about ten to twenty thousand dollars per horn, an amount that can be more than a lifetime’s income.

  These poachers put their lives on the line by walking through the game preserves of Africa, where predators like lions abound, to find and kill a rhino. They are armed and dangerous, often carrying AK47 automatic rifles.

  And on the other side are the game rangers who want to stop the poaching—to save the species. And they go to great lengths to succeed.

  Last night I joined an anti-poaching team in eastern South Africa. We walked for several hours with night-vision glasses to an area where poachers were believed to be. Eventually we found a group of four near an endangered black rhino. The night-vision glasses gave our team an advantage. Three poachers were shot dead. No challenge, no opportunity to surrender.

  I was told that the poachers don’t hesitate if they see an anti-poaching team. They shoot to kill.

  The fourth poacher was then tortured to find out which village he came from, so the rangers could visit it to persuade them not to work with the poaching cartels. After witnessing the torture, I can only imagine what they would have done to the village if the man had talked.

  What I witnessed raises the inevitable question: What is more important: the life of a rhino or the life of a human being?

  Chapter 9

  The next morning, when Crys went to breakfast, there was no sign of Johannes. The eight new guests were already there, helping themselves from the buffet of eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, and a variety of fruit and cereals. One couple greeted her—she recognized them as Midwesterners by their accents. She took some fruit and muesli and a cup of coffee and joined them at their table. There was also a couple with two teenage boys, and another couple who her new friends informed her were English.

  There was still no sign of Johannes, so Crys caught Boku as he went past to fill up the coffee urn and asked him if there was a problem.

  He nodded. “Yes, but Mr. Malan will come now-now.”

  Crys frowned, wondering what that meant. She hoped there wasn’t some problem with the rhinos.

  Finally, Johannes appeared, looking haggard. “Sorry about the delay, everyone. We had a few last-minute issues to sort out, but we can get underway now. So please finish your coffee and get ready. We’ll collect your luggage from the chalets, and we’ll leave from here in about fifteen minutes.”

  As the group started to break up, he came over to Crys’s table, his face drawn and pale. There was a slight sheen on his cheeks.

  “You okay, Crys?”

  She nodded. “I am. But what about you? What’s the issue? Has something happened?”

  “Nothing. I’ve just had a bad night, and I have a headache this morning. Maybe I’m getting a cold or something. But I’ll be fine. See you outside in a few minutes.”

  Crys nodded, unconvinced, and went to fetch her things.

  * * *

  It was a three-hour trip to reach their destination. The group arrived just in time for lunch: two staff members had gone ahead to set up, and food was waiting for them. Nonga, who was in charge of the camp, showed them around.

  The camp was set in a grove of large shade trees, and the comfortable two-person tents were spread out under them. In the center was a communal dining area covered by a flysheet, adjoining an outdoor kitchen.

  Wherever they walked, there was a continual hum of insects going about their business, and the big trees attracted birds as well as campers.

  “That’s called a purple turaco,” Nonga said, pointing at a large colorful bird with crimson wings. It settled on a branch and made an ugly coughing call.

  Crys would have been happy to stay for a month.

  Because of the heat, they waited until later in the afternoon to go on their first game drive. The group split between two open vehicles, with Johannes driving one and Bongani the other. The first sighting was some elephants, and the vehicles moved slowly to get close. Crys was both excited and a little nervous in case they charged.

  But Johannes assured them the elephants would ignore them because they were used to vehicles. It was a great photo opportunity, and the guests produced cameras of various sizes and snapped away until the huge creatures moved off silently and disappeared.

  Later, they came across a pair of mating lions—he, a glorious male with an enormous, dark mane and scars on his face; she, beautiful, sleek and young, in the prime of her life. The two vehicles stopped and watched from a safe distance for over an hour. The lions mated six or seven times. Each lasted what seemed only a few seconds, then both animals took a power nap. Then they did it again. And again. And again. He seemed to enjoy his orgasms, judging by the sound, but she just lay there. The guests shared the inevitable jokes about some humans being exactly the same.

  Finally, as the sun was about to set, swelling and reddening as it sank toward the horizon, they spotted a mother jackal with pups, playing outside their den. The pups pounced on and chased each other, tumbling through the dried grass. Crys was charmed.

  I want to take one home.

  As they headed back to camp, Crys realized the tensions from the night patrol in Kruger had finally drained away. She couldn’t wait to head back out the next morning for more wildlife-viewing.

  Arriving back at the camp, they found a hardwood fire roaring, and there was the promise of barbecued meat ahead—a braai, Johannes called it, rubbing his hands together. He was obviously pleased by how well the afternoon had turned out, but he still didn’t look well. When he wasn’t talking to the guests and leading the party, his shoulders slumped and his face fell. As they sat around the fire after dinner, he told them to be ready for a six a.m. start, then, to the disappointment of some guests, excused himself.

  Crys moved over to where Bongani was sitting on a log and took a place next to him. “Do you think Johannes is all right?” she murmured, not wanting to alarm the others.

  Bon
gani shrugged. “He’s sick. Maybe he’ll be better tomorrow.”

  She had plenty of questions she wanted to ask about the animals they’d seen, but Bongani seemed withdrawn—not sick like Johannes, but preoccupied. Everyone else was chatting and joking and generally having a good time. When she thought about the poachers she’d seen hunted and tortured just two nights before and only about fifty miles away, it all seemed so distant and unreal.

  She wondered what the others would say if she told them about it, but she wasn’t tempted. She’d keep those thoughts to herself.

  She sat watching the flames change colors and shapes, imagining that she could see fire creatures climbing from the logs. It was an opportunity to think over the last five days, her introduction to Africa. If she was honest with herself, she hadn’t learned much more than she already knew about rhino poaching, rhino farming, and rhino conservation. But she had learned something invaluable. Her view of how things happened and the workings of the African bush had changed dramatically. Now she understood that here someone could disappear, perhaps never to be found. For example, someone on the trail of “something big.”

  It was now five weeks since Michael had disappeared. Five weeks with no sign of him, no trace of his vehicle, no message, nothing. She’d talked to Sara about time being important, that every day might affect his safety. One could think like that in the States; the reality of Africa was quite different.

  She had to face it. Everything she’d heard pointed to one conclusion: he wasn’t still alive. He’d died somewhere out there. Someone had killed him.

  She put her head in her hands.

  Her first thought was to try to accept it, to move on. To write the very best article about rhinos that she could and dedicate it to him. But then she realized that wasn’t enough, not for her and not for Michael. She had to find out what had happened to him, and she had to get to the bottom of the “something big.” And, above all, to make sure the people responsible paid for their crimes.

  “Are you okay, Crys?” Bongani asked.