by Peter Riva
Pero, Heep, and Mary laughingly said it together, “Wolfie, the pool drainer!”
Susanna came out and asked, “What’s so funny?” Pero explained what had happened and continued, “Look, it’s really a joke around the world. Even John le Carré stayed here researching his book The Constant Gardener, and Wolfie drained the pool then, too!”
Bemused, Mary asked, “You two go through this every time? Why?”
Heep explained, “It’s okay. Up here, it is like the Wild West. Wolfie has to maintain control or he would be long gone, run out of town, or killed. No one but Wolfie could run the Oasis here; it’s his fiefdom, it’s his domain—the El Molo know it. They know that without him standing up for them in Parliament in Nairobi, the Turkana tribe on the western shore would have been given the eastern shore as well. It’s politics, and it’s tribal pecking order . . . pure East Africa.”
Pero added, “One more thing . . . Wolfie has the only non-salty, non-brackish water for a hundred miles. Sort of gives him the winning hand. I’ll apologize for the fish, and the pool will be full tonight after filming, okay?”
With a passing “silly boys!” said with a laugh over her shoulder, Susanna went to have a cold shower before heading over to breakfast. Heep, smiling, nodded to Pero and trotted off with his bride.
CHAPTER 3
Mamba Kisiwa na Simu ya Dharura—Crocodile Island and an Emergency Call
The day’s shooting went well, starting with a morning call at eight. Pero had hired a fishing boat with Honda outboards, and they embarked from the hotel dock and headed two hours up the lake to Crocodile Island. The water was calm in the early morning, crystal clear, birds dipping beaks on the wing to drink. As they approached Crocodile Island, looking down off to the side, Mary spotted a small herd of hippos. Heep filmed them, lowering the waterproof camera as the blue-black, corpulent giants danced along the shallow bottom near the shore of the island.
The morning’s planned shoot was filming the crocodile sand nests, the enormous females waiting just offshore, slowly treading water with powerful tails. Mary donned her wet suit, powered up her video camera, and went snorkeling in four to ten feet of water. Heep and the crew remained in shallow water and used the main underwater camera, filming her filming the crocs. The crew soon found themselves standing in five feet of water, as close to fifteen-foot crocs as anyone sane would ever want to be.
While Susanna had adjusted her Silke Wire microphone on Mary’s wet suit collar, she expressed fear for her friend in waters teeming with wildlife.
Mary placated fears, addressing the whole crew: “Don’t worry about the mother. As long as you do not get between her and the mound on shore, she will not be interested in you. The ones to watch out for are the juveniles from last year, about four-footers. They will be looking for an easy meal, preferably their cousins about to hatch. That is why she is here, to protect her young. It is the pirates that will be dangerous. But they are afraid of the waiting mother, so you can stay closer to her, and they should stay away.”
Mbuno was listening, nodding, but his eyes were focused, looking offshore, keeping a wary watch. Mbuno did not care for mamba. (Crocodiles.)
All up and down the beach, Pero could see mounds; some already burst open, others quiet. The ones nearest the water were twinned by visible slowly stirring currents just offshore, revealing a waiting mother.
At the mound that Mbuno and Mary had previously selected together, with their ears pressed to the sand, the emerging baby crocs were filmed suddenly bursting out of the sand nest, slithering, squirming toward the shore ten yards down the beach. Egyptian storks had spotted the hatching and swooped down, taking easy meals. Yet the remaining babies continued to squirm to the water and safety. Once in, they unhesitatingly swam straight toward their mother’s mouth, already gaping, an opening of about six inches. The beefy mother hung there motionless, protecting her babies in her gaping jaws. Mary was close by, filming with a small camera. Heep was twenty feet away filming Mary near the croc, catching on video the hatch-lings scooting past Mary on either side, finding their mother and safety. Mary’s microphone picked up the sounds of rippling water and the soothing noises she was making from behind her snorkel. She seemed to be humming a tune. It sounded like a child’s nursery rhyme. Pero knew the voice-over script would add words like protective and motherly instinct when they would edit the film. Mary’s incredible oneness with the scene was palpable. Perfect video, thought Pero.
As they were considering a new mound to film, Pero glanced at his watch and warned the crew he wanted to be on shore or on board the boat before noon, which was fast approaching. Mbuno agreed. Heep wanted to stay in the water longer to get more shots, but Mary trusted Pero and Mbuno and convinced Heep to pack up and get out of the water. It was just in time.
The steady twenty-mile-per-hour wind had been blowing from the west across Crocodile Island, which protected their shoot and equipment. As Pero felt the wind slacken, he called out, “Five minutes, no more! Hurry!” The crew sprang to work, packed up, and jogged to the boat. Once in, Pero could feel the wind picking up, but coming squarely from the east. From the east it would bring the desert dust, strong lake waves, and searing heat. Within seconds of noon, exactly, the temperature rose to over 110 degrees; the lake waves, previously calm, peaked at three feet; and the air was thick with dust.
The course back down Lake Rudolf was otherwise uneventful, except for Susanna complaining of seasickness as the boat pitched and rolled. She had been stowing gear, bending down instead of facing the freshening alkaline Rudolf spray. Pero hugged his wife of only nine months and encouraged her to stand for air. “Nein, nein,” she exclaimed, “My sound equipment must be properly . . .” With that she leaned over the side and fed the fish her breakfast. For the rest of the journey, Pero wetted a handkerchief and wiped her brow. She looked better by the time they got back to the jetty.
As the assistants, Tom and Nancy, unloaded the boat and started packing the Land Rover for the mile-long drive back to the lodge, Pero, Mbuno, Heep, Susanna, and Mary sat on the dock, in the lee of the boat, out of the wind. When you are filming in the bush, it pays to take time to review where you have been and what you have left to do. Pero felt this was such a time. The sun was hot, the lake was cool, the breeze was at their backs.
Pero was surprised at how much they had already filmed in just two days, “I think we got plenty of croc footage today. Mary, you were great as always. Along with yesterday’s gift of the fishing scene and the croc pack we filmed near Sibiloi Park—”
Heep interjected, “We counted them last night, over one hundred and sixty on that sand bar.”
Mary added, “The hippos were really weird in Sibiloi Park marshland. I’ve never seen hippos on land like that during the day.” The crew all knew that hippos killed more people in Africa than any other species, and on land they were especially dangerous. Farther north, up the lake near the beginning of the river that fed the Nile, there were croc and hippo attacks every year. Hippo attacks outnumbered croc attacks by a wide margin.
Pero was thoughtful. “Yeah, well, the footage of the hippos chasing you and Mbuno was pretty surreal, but I don’t think we can really use it except for promos.”
Heep chimed in, teasing his wife, “Of course, as your shirt was wet at the time, it may be somewhat useful.”
Mbuno did not get the joke. “But we had been in the water . . .”
Mary had understood and dug her husband in the ribs with her elbow. Everyone, even Mbuno, laughed.
In a more serious vein, Heep got back to business. “Remember, I was filming that herd underwater today—that’ll be good footage, and with a few cuts to shots of them going in or out of the lake yesterday, we can tie it together.”
Pero nodded. “Okay, but maybe we’ll try some extra hippo shots tomorrow morning. But what I wanted to say is that our great croc luck today just about covers what we absolutely had to get. What is left is an evening with the El Molo in their encampment, ma
ybe a firelight dance with them and Mary . . .” Pero paused, a thought emerging. “And, yeah, maybe we could get to that northern village near the hippo pools and interview the locals there . . . Wolfie said that ten children have been taken over the last few years. That could be important footage. So, let’s say hippo interviews in the morning, and maybe the village in the afternoon if Mbuno can arrange it?”
Mbuno said he would try and negotiate with the local chief warden’s office and the Nairobi “assistant” they had had to hire. In Kenya, everyone knew there were politics and government involved in anything foreigners wanted to do. Their Nairobi-appointed coordinator from the Ministry was an affable fellow, currently enjoying the hotel hospitality and free food and his hundred-dollar-a-day cash fees from the crew. They liked David because he did not oversee every moment of their day or plans, unlike some previous nosy “minders” they had experienced.
Pero summed it all up. “So, I’d say we stay here another two days comfortably, and then we can move on. Agreed?” Everyone nodded.
Mary and Susanna wanted to know if a decision had been made on where exactly they’d be going next. Pero explained he was waiting on permits to decide a schedule, but most likely it would first be into Tanzania, back to the oceanside croc farm they had filmed with Mary once before, as those visas had already been granted and the ones they had applied for to Uganda and Burundi were yet to come through. Mary whispered to Susanna that she loved the beaches there, saying, “Last time I met the biggest female croc I’ve ever seen . . . we’re pals.”
As it was past two in the afternoon, Pero told everyone to take the rest of the day off. No doubt the pool would be full, and he would see everyone at dinner, at six.
And so as the day wound down, everyone relaxed. Susanna felt better, no longer seasick. In the hottest part of the afternoon, everyone jumped into the pools, which were indeed full and refreshing. When dinner came, even Wolfie was in a good mood and joined them for Tusker beers around the campfire in the chill desert night air. Nancy, the new crewmember, had a harmonica and played a foot-stomping Old West tune she said she had learned as a kid in Utah, when riding the range. Her tune was joined by everyone beating on the nearest log or rock to punctuate the horse-trot rhythm before people melted away into the darkness toward their rooms. Soon the Oasis was dark and silent, even the generator turned down.
The emergency call came in at breakfast. They could hear Wolfie’s shortwave radio belting out his call sign, repeatedly declaring, “Come in 5Z4WD, most urgent call for Pero Baltazar.” Pero got up and made his way to Wolfie’s office, asking Amal, their waiter, to get Wolfie. “Kwenda kupata bwana Wolfgang haraka, tafadhali, Amal.” (Go get boss Wolfgang quickly, please, Amal.)
Pero knew better than to touch Wolfgang’s sole means of communication with the outside world. Besides, Wolfgang had once allowed him to use the radio transmitter set, commonly called an RT set, to reach out to Pero’s old contacts at the CIA and State Department in Washington. Pero had been a runner for them, collecting papers and making note of fellow passengers at airports when asked, fortunately infrequently—nothing dangerous, nothing remotely exciting. Then two events had caused Pero to get deeper into the world of anti-terrorism than he ever wanted. Unable to cope alone those two times, he had involved his friends, including Heep, Mary, Susanna, and, of course, Mbuno, who were once again on location with him, this time along the shore of Lake Rudolf. Pero desperately hoped this emergency call had nothing to do with his old Washington contacts.
He had quit after the Berlin package incident, after he had nearly died, mainly because he had married for the second time in his life as soon as he had left the hospital and recovered. Susanna was a brilliant sound engineer, as devoted to Pero as he was to her. The name of Pero’s first wife, Addiena, who had died in the Lockerbie disaster, was tattooed on the underside of his right forearm. He used to sleep with it across his heart so he would not forget her after she perished. Her tragic death was the reason he had offered his minor services to the CIA in the first place, wanting to do something to thwart terrorism. It was heartwarming for Pero that his new wife, Susanna, now insisted she drift off to sleep lying to his right, making him put out his arm for her to use Addiena’s name as a pillow. “She loved you and you, her. It is how I can remember her, thank her, for teaching you how to love, you dummer Mann.”
Susanna’s native German expression of “dumb man” had been a scolding term for him originally deployed during the Berlin dangers, which was when she had revealed she cared for Pero deeply. Since then, it had become a term of endearment between them, their bond cemented by past events.
Adrenaline pumping because of the radio call, Pero weaved his way past tightly packed breakfast tables, careful not to allow his large, six-foot frame to disturb fellow guests. He heard Amal calling out to Wolfgang. By the time Pero got to the radio office, he could hear Wolfgang replying, “I am coming, I am coming.” The RT set was almost a living thing to Wolfgang, and Pero was used to hearing the man talk to it as a father would his child. Pero, waiting at the door, opened it for Wolfgang, who entered, sat, and flicked the on switch all in one practiced movement. He keyed the mike, gave his call sign 5Z4WD in answer, and said, “What is the message?”
The voice faded suddenly, coming in faintly, and Wolfgang gently turned the tuning dial. “Okay, Nairobi, I read you now, the sun’s up here so this may break up.” A woman’s voice came on the radio, asked if Baltazar was available, and Wolfie told her he was present and standing by.
“Message from Flamingo Tours, for Pero Baltazar, urgent, Mwana Wambuno, on safari, Moyowosi Game Reserve, missing for over ten hours. Safari clients being flown back to Nairobi. No trace of Ube. Over.” Ube was the nickname of Mbuno’s nephew, Mwana Wambuno. Pero immediately knew Mbuno would take the news of his favorite nephew hard.
Pero asked, “Wolfie, may I speak directly to her?” Wolfgang nodded and indicated the mike button. “Pero here, who’s that? Sheila Ndelle? Over.” Sheila, the backbone of Flamingo Tours, was also the sister of the UN security police chief and totally reliable.
“Ndiyo, over.” Yes, came the reply.
“Hi Sheila, give me all the details you have, and also, where’s Tone? Over.” Anthony Bowman was the owner of Flamingo Tours, known to everyone over the decades as simply Tone. An ex–white hunter, Tone ran the best safari outfitters anywhere—expedition tents, private toilets, dinner with white table linens, client’s wishes always fulfilled.
“Hi Pero, Mr. Anthony is down at the Tanzanian Embassy trying to find out more information, if there is any known terrorist or poaching problems in the area. There wasn’t any when we sent the clients there. All we know is that Ube took three clients out on a walking safari yesterday morning, camera clients”—by which she meant not hunters—“and they took leopard images in the tall grass, a kill of a bushbuck, treeing the carcass, you know the drill.” Pero did. Leopard was one of Africa’s big five—lion, leopard, rhino, elephant, and cape buffalo. Originally a hunting list, these animals still presented a challenge for the lens hunter. “On the plane’s HF radio, briefly, the clients have reported that suddenly as they were heading back to camp, Ube told our two bearers to make the clients crawl back to the Land Rover and fly back to Nairobi without stopping or talking to anyone. They said Ube told them to do this quietly if they valued their lives. They did as they were told. They have no idea what Ube did or where he went.” Sheila paused. “But, Pero, they said they heard a shot. Over.”
Pero’s producer instincts kicked in. “You say the clients are en route for Wilson Airport? Over.” Wilson Airport was on the western side of Nairobi and the jumping off small airport for most safaris and the Flying Doctor air services. Wolfgang glanced at Pero, clearly wondering why Pero should be interested in the clients since he knew Ube’s disappearance would be of paramount importance to Mbuno and, therefore, presumably to Pero.
Sheila’s tone also had an edge. “Yes, yes, they are inbound but had to wait for Tanza
nian air traffic control for permission to depart. We had a plane waiting, in case, for medical reasons on the client’s instructions. They will be back in about two hours. But it is Ube we are worried about, and we need to tell Mbuno. Over.”
Pero nodded. “Agreed, I’ll take care of that. But Sheila, listen to me, please, I need you to go immediately to the airport, see Sheryl at Mara Airways, arrange for a Cessna 414 for us here immediately, plane and pilots—note, I said pilots—on loan, indefinite period. Over.” Sheila gave her confirmation. “Good, then call the Langata police station and ask for Sergeant Gibson Nabana. He’s the one I shot during that terrorist attack two years ago, remember? Over.” Sheila laughed and said she remembered it well. It had made the front page of the Daily Standard paper. At the time Pero had needed to gain control of a difficult confusion of authority at Wilson Airport and had only slightly wounded the sergeant. They subsequently became good allies and, since then, drinking buddies. “Okay, Sheila, tell Gibson to stop your clients and confiscate every piece of camera equipment they have. Tell him that I will be in Nairobi as soon as possible. Look, we need to review every shot to see if those camera-happy clients caught anything that can help us figure out what has happened to Ube. Once Mbuno and I see what is there, or not, we will reboard the Mara Cessna and proceed to . . . where was the landing strip? Remember that Sheryl at Mara Airways will need to have that information while you are at Wilson Airport, okay? Over.”
Sheila understood the flight would have to leave Kenya and land in Tanzania, an everyday occurrence as long as the paperwork was filled in properly with Customs and Excise on both sides of the border. “The Moyowosi Airport we used for the clients was actually at Mgwesi at the southwestern end of the Lake Nyagamoma, and then there is a three-hour slow drive into the game reserve. Should I lay on transport? Our drivers are still there, packing up the tents. I have not given them instruction to drive back to base. Over.”