The Gems of Tsingy De Bemaraha

by Roger Weston

  “Are you sure they won’t be able to hear our helicopter?” Jawara said.

  “They’re miles downriver.” Otto said

  Paul looked down at the churning brown current that curved along below the thousand-foot cliffs. From his view high above the vast tsingy reserve he saw thick, undisturbed forests and sharp metal-colored pinnacles. And he took all in with a foreboding, cold feeling because what he really saw out there was death.

  Paul turned to the pilot. “Find a place to land this thing.”

  He glanced at Otto out of the corner of his eye. He would be crazy to trust that guy with a gun. And the pilot had a spooked look that made him nervous. Paul didn't know whether the biggest danger lay ahead or in not having enough people to watch his back. He was thankful for Jawara. As for Kelly, he wasn’t sure what she was capable of.

  The pilot landed the helicopter in a grassy clearing alongside the Manambolo River and switched off the engines.

  After getting out of the helicopter, Paul helped Kelly down. Jawara kept an M16 trained on the two terrorists as they jogged clear of the whirling rotors which were slowly decreasing in speed. Paul stood by the river, watching the flow of muddy water. Across the flood of rapids, perhaps a hundred feet across, a lush jungle flourished. Behind him the tsingy cliffs rose high into the sky.

  Jawara said, “I’ll get the rafts in the water.” He put down the M16 and kneeled next to the river. He turned to Otto. “I’ll be watching the filthy pig. He tries something; I’ll pump a few slugs in his belly.”

  Otto turned his back to his tormenter and lit up a cigarette.

  Paul walked over to Kelly, who was sitting by herself, staring across the swirling torrent. He sat down next to her.

  “If Otto is right,” he said, “there are two dozen trained terrorists looking for the mine. After what they did to his brother, Jawara is determined to come.” Paul gestured at Otto and the pilot. “Those two would do anything to get out of this because they know they'll find no pity where we're going.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “None of us will. But you can leave if you want. I’ll have the pilot fly you back to town.”

  Kelly gave him a cold glare. “I’m coming.”

  “I won't be responsible for your death,” Paul said.

  Kelly stood up. “I didn't come all this way to wait in some strange town. I'm coming and nothing can change my mind.”

  Paul rose and faced her. “You’re leaving.”

  “No!” Kelly said. “I’ve got to go. If Ryan’s really dead, I need to see where it happened. This mine meant so much to him. And if he’s alive . . .”

  “You’re not going.” He stepped toward her.

  Kelly reached for a gun. “Wanna bet?” she said as she aimed it at him.

  “Okay.” Paul looked at her in disbelief. “Get ready to go.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Abu Bakr stood at the base of a cliff that rose between his men and what he hoped was the first entrance to Ryan's mine. The rock face soared over three-hundred meters above them. Rather than abrupt precipices, this part of the tsingy had an unearthly look, as if a giant yellow candle had burned until all its wax had melted, dripped down and hardened. The cliff was a steep, complex, dangerous slope of rounded ledges and ribs. To even begin to scale the slope, some of his men would have to climb a tree to jump off onto a rounded bench ten meters up. Abu Bakr rechecked the numbers on his hand-size notebook against the reading on his GPS receiver. He was certain this was the right spot.

  He turned to the sheikh who stood next to him in this splash of jungle by the Manambolo River. The sheikh clung to an AK-47, a contemplative grin on his lips, his eyes glossy, vacantly gazing at the cliff.

  “Send a couple of men up there,” Abu Bakr said. “Once they locate the entrance, have them come back down.”

  The sheikh nodded and hurried away. Abu Bakr turned toward the river. Devin, the American scum who the sheikh had brought, stood alone by the water in his brown suede jacket and leather shoes that were meant only for the city. Abu Bakr told Marwan to keep an eye on him.

  Ten minutes later, two young men climbed the tree and jumped off onto the rounded shelf of the lower cliff. Abu Bakr watched them for a while as they climbed the ribs and odd formations. The throb in his neck and head warmed and ran down his spine like dripping acid filling a vile of nerves. As his heartbeat raced, he wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers and began to take quick shallow breaths. Weariness drifted over his eyes as he turned to see if the men had finished setting up his tent. At least he could get away from the bugs and rest on his cot until he heard from the men. The cold fingers of pain scratched his spinal cord and he winced. He pressed his pain pump for relief. The sheikh walked up and stood beside him. “They'll be up there soon,” he said.

  Abu Bakr nodded. “Let me know the moment they return.”

  He entered his tent and lay down, but grew impatient. Back outside, he sat in a folding chair and began to nod off to sleep.

  A scream pulled him out of his nightmares. He opened his heavy eyelids and saw the sheikh running toward him. “Abu Bakr!” The sheikh half-turned and pointed upwards as he ran toward the tent. “He fell!”

  Another scream startled him. He looked up the cliff but couldn't see anything through the canopy of treetops. The scream got louder. A falling body crashed through the branches of a tree and hit the ground.

  Abu Bakr got to his feet and went to take a look. His chest throbbed again and his rapid breathing resumed but less so now. He wiped his sweaty hands on his shirt as he stood over the dead climbers. He scowled when he saw the hundreds of tiny little red spots that covered their twisted bodies.

  He shook his head. The climbers should have put their protective suits on before they began their ascent.

  “Bees in the camp!” the sheikh shouted as he gesticulated wildly to shoo away several attacking bees.

  Abu Bakr looked around the camp. Some of his men danced like wild men; others fled the camp and ran down the river a ways. “Get back here or I'll have you shot!” he yelled.

  A bee landed on his cheek and stung him, but the skin prick barely registered given the level of morphine in his blood. He seized the bee and squished it with his fingers.

  The men jogged over and grouped around Abu Bakr. A few more bees landed on his face and hands. He paid no attention to them. His men showed extreme stress as they tried in vain to maintain their composure while bees stung them. Sudden movements, primal grunts and shrieks showed their agitation and fear. “Get your gear into the helicopter, then go down river,” Abu Bakr said. “We're moving camp.” He pointed at the sheikh. “You, get my tent.”

  The sheikh flew into action. The others followed his example. The sounds of the helicopter rotors increased as the engines gained momentum. The wind from the rotors discouraged the bees or just blew them away, so the men sought out the copter eagerly with new loads of supplies. In only a couple of minutes the men had cleared out the camp and moved down river, but the bees continued to harass and sting them. Bees got inside their clothes and stung them. Abu Bakr slapped a man who jumped around and whimpered like a coward as he tried to get a bee out of his shirt.

  “Act like a man,” Abu Bakr said. “Or I'll show you what real pain is.” Fear of Abu Bakr put things in perspective for him, and thereafter he calmed down. They hiked close to half a mile before the last of the bees left them. The chopper hovered high overhead. Abu Bakr stopped and pointed downriver, amazed at the sight before him. A quarter of a mile down, eight small dark men with arrows strapped to their backs stood by the river and watched the helicopter.

  “They must know another way into the tsingy,” Abu Bakr said. “Apprehend them.” The sheik and a few of his men started jogging toward the native hunters. As his men got closer, Abu Bakr smiled. He realized that the men were so interested in watching the helicopter that they didn't notice his men closing in on them. When they did, they panicked and started running.

  “Stop them,” Abu Bakr said. He raised
his AK-47 and squeezed off several bursts of gunfire. Two of the hunters dropped, one fell into the water.

  The sheikh and another man also fired, dropping two more. The last four remnants of the hunting party disappeared around a bend protected by an outcrop of limestone. Abu Bakr yelled at his men, “Stop them. We want to take those men alive.” Several of his militants charged down river toward the fallen hunters. Abu Bakr got out his walkie-talkie and spoke to the helicopter pilot: “Four are getting away. They're going down river. Watch them and tell me where they go.”

  “I can see them. They’re getting in canoes.”

  “Follow them!”

  The helicopter hovered past, flying slowly down river.

  Abu Bakr walked to where his men were gathered.

  They stood around two corpses that lay in the grass. The exit wound in one man's chest was as big as a fist. The other native was dead from a bullet in the back of the head.

  With his bandaged left hand, Abu Bakr grabbed the sheikh’s grey-streaked beard. With his right hand he punched the sheikh in the eye twice.

  The sheikh groaned and staggered backwards.

  “I wanted them alive and you aimed for the head,” Abu Bakr said.

  “They were two fast,” the sheikh pleaded.

  Abu Bakr surveyed the area in a glance. “Where are the other two?”

  “Over there,” the sheikh said, pointing toward a couple of his men who stood about fifty meters away. “One of them tried to escape, but my men caught him.” When Abu Bakr got there he found a wounded man with bloodshot eyes that shifted in fear. The bullet had hit his shoulder, but he’d fallen and hit his head on a rock, which was why he hadn’t gotten away. Abu Bakr tried to communicate with the man, but the hunter didn't speak Arabic or English. Abu Bakr swore. He hadn't thought about that when he gunned them down.

  Then he realized that language was irrelevant. “There,” he said, pointing toward the tsingy, “There!”

  Abu Bakr could see that the native was frightened at being captured and surrounded by strange men. He wore tattered military fatigues and no shirt. He had a big forehead and almost no chin. The man lay on the ground, moaning.

  Abu Bakr walked away and called up the helicopter pilot on the walkie-talkie. “Where are they?”

  “Still going downriver in their canoe. They dropped a man off several hundred yards down river. That man crossed to the far side of the river.”

  “Keep watching them, especially the one they dropped off.”

  “He already disappeared into a forested area.”

  “Look for him then!” Abu Bakr shoved the walkie-talkie into his pocket. He walked back to the native. “Get him up.”

  Two of his men lifted the small man.

  Abu Bakr reached into his pocket and brought out a large blue sapphire. He held the gem in front of the native and pointed at the cliffs with his free hand. “Where?”

  The native looked confused.

  Abu Bakr shook the gem in front of his face. “Sapphire,” he said, pointing. “Take me to the mine.”

  Slowly, a look of understanding overcame the native’s face, but it was quickly replaced with an air of defiance. He gazed out across the river as though he were all alone.

  Abu Bakr smacked him across the face so hard that the force tore him from the steadying hands of his captors, and the native fell to the ground. Abu Bakr got out his knife. Dropping to his knee, he pressed the point of his knife against the man's throat. The man howled in fear; his body convulsed in the grass. With his free hand, Abu Bakr held the sapphire in front of his face.

  “Where is it?” he said.

  Now the native suddenly knew English. “I’ll show you. Just don’t cut me.”

  CHAPTER 44

  Paul stepped into the grass and pulled his canoe onto shore. A “ssshhh” sound rose above the whispering current as Jawara's boat slid onto solid ground. While the others stepped out, Paul looked around at the lightly forested area between their location and the unusual wax-like yellow tsingy cliff. He looked at the grass and saw numerous spots where the grass had been walked on recently.

  He turned to the others. Kelly was sitting in the grass. Otto and the pilot stood off a ways watching nervously, their gazes darting around the landscape as if they expected Abu Bakr to arrive at any time to perform their execution.

  Paul handed Kelly an M16. “Watch our visitors carefully. If they do anything wrong, don’t hesitate to shoot. Just like hunting elk in Idaho.”

  She nodded with confidence.

  Paul raised his eyebrows. He’d noticed changes in Kelly since rescuing her from the terrorist training camp in the Sahara. Not surprisingly her experience there had hardened her. He stepped toward Otto. “You try anything and she's gonna pump you full of lead. You understand that?”

  Otto glanced at her warily with big eyes, nodding vaguely in a way that flexed his neck muscles. He slowly wiped his wrist on his checkered head-cloth.

  “She'll drop you like an animal, and you'll curse her if you live,” Paul said. “This is no place to be shot. It'll be days before anyone can get medical treatment.”

  “To help you, we will need our guns.” Otto said, lighting a cigarette with shaky fingers.

  “We'll see about that.” Paul turned to Jawara, who was walking towards him “I’m gonna take a look around.” he said.

  Jawara patted the rifle strap over his chest and smiled. “They try anything; I'll be the one to drop them.”

  Paul walked toward the trees, studying footprints in the grass. From what he could tell, they were fresh. He heard a humming sound and stopped walking. A swarm of bees came out of nowhere and completely covered him.

  He had no idea how many bees landed on him but it felt like tens of thousands. They covered every inch of his body. From the moment they landed on him, he didn't move. Thousands of tiny little feet walked on his face and in his ears. They tickled his nose hairs. Humming surrounded him. His hands wore gloves of moving bees. No bees stung him, but they didn’t leave either. His muscles began to ache with stiffness. He didn't know how long he stood there motionless, but he guessed it must have been fifteen minutes.

  Finally, very, very slowly, he took one step toward the river. The step must have taken thirty seconds to a minute. When he'd completed one step, he took another. In this manner he covered the forty yards to the river over the next half an hour or so, the bees hanging on to him tenaciously. Finally he felt the water rise around his ankles, legs, and then his chest. When he went under, he swam, praying the bees didn't attack Jawara and Kelly, and praying that no crocodiles came. When he could hold his breath no longer, he came up for air, but dove under again before he dared to check and see if the bees were following him. The second time, he paused long enough to realize that the bees had left him. He stood up in the chest-deep water and looked for the others. He didn't see them, but he noticed that the canoes were floating upside-down in the river. He swam gently, quietly, ever ready to dive under at the first hint of trouble. But he saw no bees. He swam under a canoe. It was dark under the boat, but enough sunlight filtered through that he could see Kelly and Otto seeking protection from the bees under the inflatable boats.

  “At least we know we're in the right place,” Paul said as he emerged from the water splashing his head out under the canoe.

  Startled, Kelly said, “Are you alright?”

  “Didn't even get stung.”

  “The bees mean we are getting close. Ryan is nearby. I just know it.”

  “Otto,” Paul said. “Come with me. We’re going back out there.”

  The man looked hostile to the idea, but said, “The sooner we leave this area the better.”

  Paul swam under the canoe where Jawara and the pilot were hiding. He told the pilot to follow him, and he asked Jawara to wait onshore with Kelly. Then with Otto and the pilot following him, he led the assault on the beach. A couple of lone bees harassed them, but the swarm stayed away. Paul dug into Kelly and Jawara’s backpacks and br
oke out two beekeeping suits, giving one each to Otto and the pilot. Then he got out his.

  “What’s this for?” Otto said, adjusting his checkered head-cloth.

  “You're gonna help me find the entrance to the tsingy.”

  Otto's lips tightened, his eyes darted rapidly around. “Are you crazy?”

  “I thought you wanted revenge on Abu Bakr.”

  Otto nodded resentfully. “I'll be happy to see him dead.”

  “What about you?” Paul asked the pilot. “You don't say much. Are you ready to face Abu Bakr?”

  He looked at Otto. “I am not afraid to die like this coward.”

  Otto sneered.

  “Good,” Paul said, “get your bee suit on.”

  After they suited up, Paul lifted his shotgun and said, “Let's go.”

  “Where are our guns?” Otto said. “You don't expect us to go in there without rifles, do you?”

  “Yeah, I do.” Paul started back into the clearing toward the grove of trees. Occasionally he looked back. The prisoners followed close behind. When the bees descended upon them, they stopped to reorient themselves for a moment. Slowly Paul walked on until he approached what turned out to be the thickest of the bees swarming around a grisly sight. From the location of the bodies at the base of the cliff, he got the idea that they had fallen. Bees swarmed over the corpses.

  “I’m going back to the river,” Otto said. “Those are not normal bees.”

  Paul wiped the bees away from his hood screen as the hoard descended on them with vicious abandon.

  “Keep moving.”

  “Ah!” Otto said. “I've been stung. A bee got in my suit.”

  Humming filled the air. Paul continually wiped off his hood screen just to see. “You’ll be fine. Keep going.”

  A quarter mile upriver, most of the bees had left them, so Paul led them back to the others at the riverbank.

  By the time they found Kelly and Jawara, they were bee free.