Kidnapped on Safari

by Peter Riva

  It was agreed that Heep, Mary, and Susanna, along with Nancy and Tom, would hole up at the Interconti to review the tourists’ film as soon as possible, and they could also await news or a call for help. Then came the moment for everyone to depart, but before they could look for the nearest cabs, two minibuses arrived. Sheila from Flamingo Tours got out of one and Tone Bowman emerged from the other. It was Tone who spoke. “You still here? We need to get Ube back.”

  “Agreed, Tone,” Pero responded, shaking Tone’s hand. Pero was worried how long Nairobi Labs would take to process the film and wondered if Tone might have an idea. Pero pointed out that Sergeant Gibson had already gained possession of the cameras and film.

  Tone was glad to have something constructive to do. “Righty-ho. I’ll go to Nairobi Labs directly with Sergeant Gibson and get the owner, Hasaan, working immediately.” Pero pointed at Mara’s office and explained that Gibson needed to keep legal custody for testimony later. “Good, Hasaan can work under police orders then. I’ll call the Sergeant’s new chief at Langata Station. He’s my neighbor. I guess the developed film could be with your people at the Interconti by tonight. That do?” Everyone agreed it would have to do.

  Susanna shook Tone’s hand, introduced herself as Pero’s wife, and explained she would act as the communications center in their room at the Interconti.

  Pero felt relieved that Susanna was being professional and not overly emotional. “Well, that settles it. Hey, thanks everyone, but please, one more favor—wait till you hear from us; don’t come charging down to Moyowosi until you are sure, okay?” His team gave their agreement, and people started to divide supplies and luggage, loading it all into the minivans.

  Mbuno took Tone off to the side, where they had a heated argument. Mbuno prevailed. Tone then addressed everyone. “Okay then, we’ll take you to the Interconti. I have already called your man there, Pero. All booked in; they even threw the BA night flight crew out early to make room.” People began to load up. Mbuno and Bob started to take the gear they needed to the waiting Cessna, which was being refueled and undergoing pilot preflight inspection.

  On their own, Tone and Pero needed to clear the air. Pero started first. “Ube’s family to me, Tone. He’s like Mbuno’s son, really. I can’t let my brother down.”

  “Yes, but he’s my friend, too. Both of them are—most trusted. If I stay here and take control . . .”

  “No, Mbuno needs control, Tone. Not me, Mbuno. He is the only one I would trust in a situation in the bush like this. It’s his kid. He’s the expert, he’s got to have one hundred percent control.”

  “Yes, yes, I figured as much. It’s just frustrating. Did you know Mbuno was my field agent during the Troubles? He is, or was, the most capable man I know. But still . . . we’re the same age. He just told me, dammit, that I would slow him down. Well, my ego took a bruising, I’ll tell you, mainly because he is right, of course. So, have no fear, I’ll monitor the phones here.”

  “Ah, but Susanna will have the RT frequencies, and we’ll be using that.”

  “Agreed, and I have an old set at home, so we’ll power them all up and maintain watch until you no longer need us. The camp team down there consists of two brothers, Teddy and Keriako Matunga. They are reliable.”

  “Bob said so. Good to know.” But something was bothering Pero about what the three witnesses had intimated. Pero knew Tone had safari intelligence streaming in from all of East Africa. He needed to maintain his edge as the premier tour operator. So Pero asked Tone, “What did you find out from the Tanzanian embassy?”

  “Nothing, nothing in the region—no terrorists, no kidnapping gangs in Tanzania yet; only the ones in Burundi, and that’s four hundred miles and three tribal lands away. Nothing they can think of. They are as dumbfounded as we are. They are about to call in several hunting safari groups for safety. This has spooked the whole region.”

  Pero got to his real question. “What would a German or German group be doing secretly operating in the Moyowosi region? What’s down there that anyone cares about? No poaching, too few elephants . . . any ideas?”

  Shaking his head, Tone answered, “Hell, there’s all sorts of stuff in the papers about environmental destruction of old forests for new tobacco farms, but those outfits are mainly funded by Chinese holding companies out of Dar.” Pero understood he meant Dar es Salaam, the former capital of Tanzania on the coast, five hundred miles away. “I can’t see what that has to do with German interest. But you know, these may be ex-colonialists, German relatives left over from the First World War. But still, why armed?” Tone nonetheless promised he would put out feelers and report in. “At least it’s something I can sink my teeth into! And I might ask your friends, the Singh brothers in Dar es Salaam, if they know anything. All right with you if I use your name?”

  “Brilliant.” The Singh brothers ran some of the largest businesses in Tanzania as well as the secret police. “Mbuno’s waving. Time to go. See you, Tone.”

  “Godspeed. Bring ’im back, Pero, bring ’im back.”

  Passing his wife, Pero hugged her close and kissed her full on the lips. Unaccustomed to public displays of affection, Susanna blushed with the love she felt for her husband and then, much to her surprise, burped. “Sorry Pero . . . still a bit of plane sickness.”

  “Rest at the hotel and ask Mary to keep an eye on you. Bye, darling.” And he ran to climb aboard the aging but perfectly maintained Cessna 414.

  CHAPTER 7

  Wanyama—Wild Animals

  The right engine coughed into life. Bob sat strapped in as Mbuno took the seat opposite and did the same. Pero climbed aboard, told the pilots to go, and sat in the row behind Mbuno. Pero was making the silent point that Mbuno was in charge.

  Once they were “wheels up” and headed south-southeast toward Moyowosi, Pero unbuckled and sat on the floor between Bob and Mbuno, facing the tail of the plane so he could see their faces. He said, “I haven’t been to Moyowosi before. Can you give me a rundown of what to expect?” Pero knew that East Africa contained virtually every climate and type of vegetation, terrain, and animal species in the continent. From snowcapped mountains to scorching deserts. From deep jungle to open savanna. From densely populated cities to areas the size of New Jersey where only a few tribespeople roamed. From the descriptions the tourists had recounted, the region they were flying to was likely to be wet and well-grassed, but Pero needed a producer’s assessment, something he could use to shape his thinking.

  Mbuno gave a rundown from memory based on official tourist information. “Moyowosi Game Reserve is very, very rich in animals. There are large populations of buffalo, the topi antelope with prized twisted horns like the larger hartebeest, who is also there, and the even larger roan antelope. There is also a few greater kudu, a very big antelope that is very rare, also many big prides of lion and giraffe—but no Rothschild’s giraffe that I have heard of—zebra, and, in the marsh regions, leopard, waterbuck, sitatunga or marshbuck, hippo, and crocodile. Of course, the reserve is also famous with birdwatchers, especially British twitchers, to see wattled crane and the shoebill, which is a very large stork-like bird. Both are very pretty and can be seen near Lake Nyagamoma that feeds the Malagarasi River.” Mbuno looked exhausted at remembering all that.

  Bob’s mouth was open. “Good God. That’s almost word for word what Ube said on our way down.” Mbuno smiled and nodded. Bob smiled back and said, “Yeah, I see it now. One expert teaching another. Gotcha.”

  Pero was still puzzled by the German angle. “Mbuno, what the hell is down there besides a few hunting campsites, maybe a tourist lodge or two, that would attract a military organization? Is there any industry down there? Mines? Gold? Diamonds? Anything?”

  “I think, Pero, in all that mud in the rainy season, it would be very hard. Now, at the end of the dry season, until the rains come, the hunting and wildlife are very good, very wild.” He went on to explain, haltingly, searching for the right words, that even in the dry season, the marshes
are very large, though not as large as in October when the rains come. So, during this time, the animals are pushed together, which is better for hunters. “But I think it is not a very good place to hunt in Moyowosi as it is in Kigosi Reserve. Kigosi is very wild, very big, very dry right now. Hunting is easier.” Mbuno explained that Moyowosi was safer for tourists with a camera because there is little hunting anymore. “It is why camera safaris go now to Moyowosi, not Kigosi. It is safer.”

  “Not anymore it ain’t,” replied Bob.

  Pero felt it necessary to uphold Ube’s honor. “Bob, Ube would not have taken you there if there was any known danger.” Bob immediately apologized; he had only meant that going forward it might not be considered so safe. Pero replied, “True, but I still can’t figure out why.”

  Mbuno put his head back and closed his eyes. “It does not matter. We must find Ube.”

  Pero, for once, did not agree with his friend. He felt sure that to get Ube back safely, they needed to know what they were up against.

  The flight droned on with all three men strapped into their seats. They flew over the vast Maasai Mara, then the Serengeti plain, then turned sharply and headed straight over the southern tip of Lake Victoria, veered south-southeast to avoid Burundi airspace, and circled southeast to pass over the western tip of Lake Nyagamoma to line up on Moyowosi Airport, if it could be called that. To Pero, the airstrip looked even smaller than the one at Lake Rudolf.

  The plane touched down almost silently on the dirt strip, and from his window, Pero saw only a single WWII steel hut for police who would be acting as customs control. They disembarked from the Cessna and asked the two pilots to organize sleep shifts to be ready to depart on a moment’s notice, twenty-four hours a day. The pilots explained that Sheryl at Mara had already briefed them, and they would be fueled and ready. All signs of customs or police were conspicuously absent, so the crew said they would handle it if anyone showed up. “This was not an expected arrival, so our guess is that the customs guy is at home in this heat, asleep. But don’t worry, we have all the paperwork.”

  Pero, Bob, and Mbuno walked through the safari client’s waiting room. A bold sign declared it to be the “Transit Lounge.” There was not a matching chair to be seen. An old bottled water vending machine for tourists with a Scotch-taped paper notice covering the coin slot demanded three thousand shillings per bottle: “Pay Cash to Agent.” As he passed the machine, Pero noticed that the plastic of the bottles was yellowing in the heat. And lord, it’s humid, he thought, comparing it to the dryness of Lake Rudolf.

  Outside, two Land Rovers were waiting. The two drivers immediately recognized Bob, and he them. Bob made the introductions. “This here is Teddy, yep, named after our great President Roosevelt. Seems his great-great-grandfather was a porter for T. R. And this is his younger brother, Keriako.” Bob put his hands on their shoulders. “Fellows, thank you again for saving us.” The men looked amazed that Bob was back and had questions for him in Swahili.

  Mbuno silenced them, everyone, with, “Ukimya!” (Silence!) Then he looked at the ex-Marine. “Mr. Bob, I need to talk with these men.” Pero could tell by the way in which Mbuno had said men that he was unsure of them; something was not straightforward, not typical of Mbuno’s friendly nature. Mbuno walked the men off to a distance and began questioning them, and Pero heard the word Sukuma, and the men began shaking their heads. Nope, they’re not Sukuma tribe, thought Pero.

  Pero knew the Sukuma people were the largest single tribal group in Tanzania, a warlike people whom Mbuno did not have much respect for. Years before, on a Serengeti shoot, it was campfire gossip that Mbuno had accused one of the hired guides of providing meat with wire-noose snare traps; it was not an honorable kill. The man had argued with Mbuno and then produced a spear and thrown it to attack Mbuno. Mbuno had simply plucked the spear from midair, broken its wooden shaft over his knee, and dropped it in the dust. The Sukuma man left in disgrace.

  Pero could see Mbuno was pressuring the men, who were holding their hands up in defense. Eventually, Mbuno clapped the one called Teddy on the back, took hold of his upper arm, and guided him back to Pero and Bob who were looking on, astonished. Mbuno seemed relieved. “These men can be trusted. They pretend to be Sukuma to get work, but they are not.” He spoke to the men, “Kuwaambia kweli ambao ni.” (Tell them who you are.)

  Teddy spoke for his younger brother, Keriako. “Tunasikitika bwanas. Mama yetu ni Sukuma, lakini baba yetu ni Okiek na Kikuyu.” (We are sorry, misters. Our mother is Sukuma, but our father is Okiek and Kikuyu.)

  Mbuno explained, “The Sukuma in this region, away from their homeland, are not to be trusted. Kikuyu are farmers and government people only from near Mount Kenya. But the Okiek are relatives of the Liangulu.” He turned to Bob and said, “My people.” Then he said to Pero, “I know the Okiek.” Pero understood he meant that he trusted the tribe.

  Mbuno looked at the men and told them they had upheld the honor of the Okiek in saving these tourists. Now he, a father Liangulu, needed them to help him find Ube, his missing nephew.

  It was the younger man, Keriako, who asked, “Wewe ni nani, baba wa Liangulu?” (Who are you, Liangulu father?)

  When Mbuno gave them his name, both boys, probably not much older than twenty and twenty-one, dropped to their knees and began keening. Mbuno reached down and pulled them to their feet. For Pero and Bob, observers in this strange encounter, the next few minutes were confusing and yet profound. Both boys told a story in Swahili, tripping over each other’s sentences. Pero could make out the words for grandfather and grandmother, as well as the tribal name of Okiek, but most of the rest was incomprehensible. After a few moments, it was clear Mbuno was also startled, and he began hugging the boys. Mbuno turned to Bob and Pero and said, “These are the grandchildren of an Okiek man and a woman I saved from a terrible place near Nairobi. You know it well, Pero, the place you call a slum—Kibera. I put them on a matatu to go home. We became friends. They send me honey.”

  As Bob was looking completely confused, Pero added what little knowledge he had, “Wild honey. It’s what the Okiek are famous for harvesting. Mbuno here is addicted.”

  Mbuno smiled. “I would not say addicted. I do like honey very much.” And he laughed, still hugging the boys, one on each side, both taller than he was. “Now, we can work together . . .”

  Mbuno was giving instructions for one Land Rover to be left for the pilots and for Keriako to give them the keys when the sound of a plane approaching made them all look up and scan the sky. From the east, a sleek red-and-white executive plane, twin pusher turboprop, roared just feet off the runway. Reaching the end, it zoomed upward, barrel-rolled, and circled the runway to reapproach from the east once more for landing. Their own two pilots and the five men watched, fascinated, as the racy-looking plane made a perfect landing. As it was taxiing back from the end of the dirt strip, creating a massive dust storm behind it, the Cessna pilot called over and shouted, “Avanti, bloody nice!” Pero knew that model of plane was very expensive and not really suited for dirt strips in the middle of nowhere.

  Suddenly, from the jungle began to emerge the sound of trucks approaching. Pero quickly gave an order. “Haraka! Mbuno, Teddy, Bob—get into the Land Rover quickly, and Bob, lie down out of sight. Mbuno, you and Teddy sit up front, leave the back door open for me, engine running.” Mbuno translated the order to Teddy, and they went at a sprint.

  Pero stood his ground, waved goodbye to his pilots as they took the other Land Rover keys, and motioned to Keriako to hustle back. Pero wanted to give the impression that he was ready to leave.

  A Unimog—a four-wheel-drive, off-road expedition truck—pulled up in front of the steel hut, followed by a Mercedes diesel SUV. Two men got out of the SUV and walked into the waiting room. They paid no attention to Pero or his Land Rover. However, the driver of the Unimog, who wasn’t African, watched Pero intently. Pero waved at him. The man flashed a finger. Pero smiled and continued waving back, pretending to have conf
used the gesture as a simple greeting. As Keriako reached Pero, Pero patted him on the back and told him in broken Swahili to walk slowly to the Land Rover and get in the back while leaving the door open. Pero walked toward the hut.

  Inside, he saw two men in jungle camo outfits, both with new jungle boots laced in the German fashion, taking water from the machine. Pero went up to them and asked innocently, “Excuse me, fellows, do you speak English?”

  “Yes, I do,” replied the taller man with blond hair, perhaps in his mid-thirties, very thin. “What do you want?” His English was flawless, the accent thick. Pero couldn’t place it.

  Pero explained, genially, that he was on a round-Tanzania flight looking for possible locations for the TV documentary series they were about to start filming. “Moyowosi has some special birds—cranes—that the head office wants to get. Either of you fellows know where a shallow pond or marsh location would be filmable? Oh, and hey, are you guys down here hunting or filming?”

  “None of your damn business. Just make sure you stay away from our camp. You see a truck or any vehicle, turn around and stay away. Got it?” The threat was plain, sudden, and out of keeping with tourist bush etiquette.

  Pero calculated the intent was to frighten him away pronto, perhaps preventing him from getting a look at the faces of the three men in suits who were then disembarking from the Avanti. He decided to give the two men some room and himself a little cover. He cranked up a Los Angeles accent, “All right, all right, jeez, I was just asking. I work for Ultimate Films, you know . . .”

  “I don’t give a damn who you work for. Now, get going.”

  Pero feigned fear and went, fast. The engine was already running and the wheels turning before he shut the Land Rover door.

  CHAPTER 8

  A Dirt Road along the Malagarasi River