by T. M. Clark
Joss laughed. ‘Not right now. Triathlons, yeah, they’re hard work, but I can be just as strong as I once was. It’s just going to take some time and lots of energy.’
‘If anyone can bounce back, Joss, it’s you. Listen, I have to run or those trucks will have a head start on me and I’ll never catch up. When your wheels are through customs and you’ve settled, give me a call,’ she said, digging in her purse for a business card and handing it to him. ‘You’ll need to come and collect Nguni – but you can’t drive it, and – oh, dammit, you know what I mean …’
Joss smiled. ‘I do. I’ll call you.’
‘You do that,’ she said as she hung her briefcase from her shoulder, grabbed her small travel case and pulled the chair from under the door handle. ‘I’ll let them know you’re staying another night so you don’t have to climb those steps again.’
‘I’ll be climbing them again anyhow if your bakkie needs help starting—’
‘Ah crap ... Watch from the window. Hopefully Nguni will behave!’
* * *
Joss watched as Peta drove away. He turned back to their room, his room now, and frowned. Somehow he had never imagined his first night home in Zimbabwe would be in a motel room with Courtney’s older sister. She had always been there when they were growing up, more reserved but doing everything they did, usually with a caution not to do it first. His heart ached, knowing that his childhood friend had died, that he had missed that whole part of her life. Eighteen months ago he’d been so doped up on morphine and other drugs he wouldn’t have known if she’d called him daily or not. He barely remembered having conversations with her, and if it hadn’t been for Tank, he wouldn’t have even remembered that she’d died.
He was on the way home to her now, to visit her resting place, explain what had happened to him, and to say his final good-bye. He should have called her father’s home in the Matusadona National Park, where she had said she was going to recover, and told Uncle Rodger he was coming. Deep down he had not wanted to face the truth, that his coming home was never about Courtney dying, but more about his near death. A slow burn began in his stomach as the memory of so many other good friends he had lost started to come back. Until now he had been able to separate his worlds: his Zimbabwe circle and his military circle. The African circle stood for all things pure, simple, unblemished; the military circle represented war, hatred, and the loss of so much: his innocence, his friends and a land torn apart by heretics.
Courtney was dead, having been beaten by ovarian cancer, and he himself had narrowly escaped the Grim Reaper. His circles had merged into a mess.
He took a deep breath, not sure he was as ready to face the world outside Headley as he’d thought he was. He flexed his hands.
‘Courage.’ He flicked off the switch that let the anger and resentment surface, and brought himself under control again.
He thought of Peta. She was everything Courtney wasn’t. While Courtney used to bubble with energy, laughter and life, Peta had always been the cautious one, the one who stopped Courtney and Joss doing crazy things. Together they had all but run the district; from the time they were about five to the time they were in their teens, if there was trouble, everyone would blame them. It was normally Courtney’s idea that Joss took further, so he guessed that it was his fault, but because Courtney was around, she also got blamed. That was when Peta wasn’t there to caution her, keep them from being in trouble. She’d always been the older, wiser sister, and had taken her job seriously. Ndhlovy coming into his life when he was ten had united them even more. The girls had shared the feeding with him, slept in the stable, and they had all celebrated when the matriarch had come with her small herd and had taken Ndhlovy back into the wild after her mother One-Tusk had eaten enough moringa trees and had ample milk for her baby again.
Courtney hadn’t wanted him to be a Royal British Marine Commando, she had fought with him every step of the way, trying to discourage him from going and getting his arse shot at. Peta had been the one who had told him to follow his dream, be who he wanted to be. And his dream had always been the commandos. From the moment he could remember his grandfather talking about them, showing him his badges and medals from World War Two, he’d known that was what he wanted to do with his life.
Save people.
Help people.
Be a hero.
It was in his blood. His grandfather saved people. His father saved the wildlife. Now it was his turn.
He had left Zimbabwe for England to follow his dream of a green beret, waved off proudly by his parents. But too soon they had died in a car accident on the Victoria Falls Road when the driver of a truck transporting copper travelling from Zambia had fallen asleep and driven over their 4x4. At least he knew they hadn’t suffered, that they had died instantly and together. He had almost given up the marines then and come home, but he couldn’t. He was committed, and he was determined to complete his tour. Then the next deployment came, and he signed on again, knowing that Bongani was looking after the lodge, running it as well as he could, waiting for Joss to come home.
And it was while he lay in bed, unable to walk, unable to do much but watch the endless drip in his IV line, that he had received his final letter from Courtney: she had cancer and was going home to Zimbabwe to die with dignity and peace. Please would he come home and hold her hand?
So much for being a hero. He hadn’t been there for her.
Joss punched the pillow and flipped over onto his stomach. The fan continued to circulate the hot air around the room. He was home. He was in Zimbabwe.
Already it wasn’t what he’d imagined, what he had worked so hard for. With his tunnel vision of just getting well enough to get home to his safari lodge, to continue building up his strength and pay his respects, he hadn’t focused on how different he was now, or how he would manage with his broken body in a land where so much had changed.
He had been so determined to go and fight against the injustice of the world with the commandos that he hadn’t noticed how messed up his own country had become.
* * *
Matusadona National Park
In the predawn light where shadows and darkness merge, when lions rest with full bellies after their hunt and the birds begin to serenade the approaching dawn, Peta watched her precious game trucks draw into position after the fifteen-hour slow drive across Zimbabwe. The off-loading area of Tashinga Headquarters of the Matusadona National Park was already a hive of activity. She smiled, watching the men and women she worked with ready the bomas for the incoming cargo.
Wayne got out of the front truck and stretched his back. ‘That was a long haul!’
Peta grinned. ‘Yes, but worth it for my research and this project. So worth it.’ She rubbed her hands together, then caught herself, and quickly put them loosely by her side.
‘Welcome home, Peta,’ Tsessebe said. ‘I was worried that Nguni might not make it.’ He bumped knuckles then shook her hand, and lightly touched her shoulder.
‘Had one or two problems, but mostly she still runs well. How was Dad?’
‘He was no trouble.’
‘Good one, Tsessebe. What antics did he get up to this time?’
‘None, I promise. If he started straying, I guided him back.’
‘I’m in your debt, as always.’ Lately her dad was getting to be a handful and a half. As head of the rhino project, Rodger had always been the driving force behind the success of the breeding in the parks, keeping the two jewels as natural as possible, ensuring that the wild game was the priority, but after his attack, things in Chizarira had begun to slip. As the onsite large game vet, Peta had unofficially taken on many of his duties as well. They had talked with Africa Wildlife In Crisis about him retiring at length, and letting another take his place, but they had all felt that he lived for his job, and would die if it was taken away; so as long as Peta picked up the slack, they were happy to have him continue. Besides, if he retired, it would send a message to the poaching fraternity that
the park was easy pickings without its ikanka yabo – ‘their jackal’ – left to protect it and its rhino.
She remembered the fateful day when her father had been visiting his brother in Nyamandhlovu and the war vets had seized the farm. Her uncle had been killed, and Rodger had been shot multiple times and beaten almost to death. When the neighbours got there to help, they found him still breathing. After months of treatment, when Peta had thought that everything was going to be alright, they had realised that Alzheimer’s had set in with the shock. Her father was there some days, but others he was like a child stuck in history and unable to get out.
Since the attack, Rodger was shakier than he had ever been, and he was now blind in his left eye and had limited sight in his right. The only reason he could still drive was because she had changed his bakkie to an automatic transmission, and Tsessebe guided him verbally. His fingers were gnarled and bent from being broken and fixed as arthritis set into the joints, and he dragged his left leg when he walked. It was so damaged by the bullet that had shattered his femur that despite pins and plates, he still didn’t have full control over it. But none of this stopped him. He could still do most of his work as long as Tsessebe was by his side.
‘Where is he?’ she asked.
‘Still asleep. We had a big day yesterday.’
Alerted to trouble, Peta looked at Tsessebe. ‘What happened?’
‘The rangers found another poachers’ camp, so we raided it. They found nets, rifles and a motorbike, but no poachers. We tracked them to where they had left in a boat, and when they come back there will be a surprise waiting for them. Teach them to poach our wildlife.’
‘Tell me he didn’t rig another claymore in the park.’
‘Just a little one so we will hear the noise and can rush to catch them.’
‘Ah man, Tsessebe, he can’t do that! Now I have to go and defuse it before some poor animal gets hurt, or a tourist. This isn’t the seventies any more, we’re not in the middle of a war.’ Peta rubbed her forehead. When she had become her father’s bomb squad she couldn’t quite remember, but she silently thanked his younger self for ensuring she had a sound knowledge of explosives.
‘This was not a place any tourist would go, but I will take you there,’ Tsessebe said. ‘Maybe it is time we started treating it more like a war again. Those poachers keep coming, and we cannot just treat it as anti-poaching forever. It is time we armed ourselves, like a private army, and went to war with them. Like they did back in the day. We should do it now, before there is no wildlife left in our park to protect.’
‘I know, and you know the answer. I have asked for more weapons to arm the rangers, but AWIC said that we are here for conservation, not war. I think we need to get a private sponsor on board, someone who can go all Schwarzenegger on the poachers for us, and leave us to our job of looking after the animals.’ She shook her head, and looked back at the game trucks. ‘Come see what I found at auction. New blood and some unexpected additions.’
They walked to the first truck, where Wayne and Jamison, the owners of South African based Wild Translocation trucking company, were already getting the gangplank ready and the hessian and metal sides in place. The truck was backed up to a boma, designed for holding game in quarantine. The holding pens at Tashinga had seen many beauties pass through, and the buffalo bull was no exception; new blood for the Matusadona gene pool. The best thing was that, other than bartering a week’s holiday on her family houseboat as transport fees, he was free. Peta watched every dollar of their meagre budget like a leopard watched its prey. She looked through an airhole into the crate on the back of the truck. She turned away from the acrid smell, and grinned as Tsessebe glued his eye to the hole.
‘A duggaboy? He is beautiful. How do you think he will go with the tsetse flies?’
‘I don’t know ... I’m hoping that he might have seen a few before in his life – who knows? But I do know that he’s cantankerous and strong. He’s a fighter, this one, and he deserves to keep living wild, not become a trophy on some wall.’
‘Used to lions?’
‘He comes from the Limpopo area, from a game farm there that had predators, but he’s not so fond of people. He’s been known to chase a tourist or two. I’m hoping he disappears into the bush here, as he’s a menace animal. Let’s hope I don’t have to be the one to call in a hunting concession on him. I know there’s enough room here for him and for us, and since we don’t have that many tourists, maybe he’ll find a place to live a decent undisturbed life too.’
Tsessebe nodded. ‘Did you get the black rhino?’
Peta nodded. ‘For even less than I thought I’d have to bid, too. It was a good auction for the buyers.’
‘Stand clear,’ Jamison called, and they stepped away from the cage. Anything could go wrong with the release of a wild animal into a boma, and they moved nearer the giant wooden structure just in case. The buffalo snorted once before putting its head down and slowly backing out of the container, then turned around with surprising speed, and jumped the rest of the way off the ramp and into the enclosure. He snorted, put his head down and charged the trailer. Dust flew up around him as he skidded to a halt and snorted again. He shook his head, his huge curled horns with their thick base ready to rip apart anyone who came too near.
Wayne stood next to her. ‘He’s magnificent. I can see why you insisted on finding another avenue for him other than trophy hunters.’
‘That he is. Now let’s hope he likes the wide open spaces of Matusadona and leaves the tourists alone,’ Peta said. ‘Thanks again for the transport.’
Wayne smiled. ‘What’s not to love about Tashinga, other than the roads coming in? I thought that they might be the undoing of my trucks, and wondered at Jamison’s insisting that we bargain with you, but now that I see this place, I can understand why he was so persistent. Tara and Ebony are going to be so jealous.’
Jamison laughed. ‘True, both our wives will be green with envy, and do not mind Wayne, he is always worried about our trucks. If we break down here, the spare parts are sparse and expensive.’
‘It was good to see you come all the way through without any problems, both for your and my animals’ sakes. Let’s get that chipembele out after his long journey; my rhino will want to stretch his legs and have a rub on something.’
They turned to where the trailer of the second truck had been unhitched. Moeketsi, the older black man who shared driving with the younger man, Hawk, chuckled as they approached.
Peta frowned. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘Look at your rhino bull – already he is sniffing the air. He knows there are others here; already he is interested,’ Moeketsi said.
‘We have three juveniles in the bomas at the moment. He can probably smell them. Poor guy. We’ll settle him down and get him used to his guards before he’s let out. He’ll never be alone again. Two teams of men will watch him twenty-four hours a day; it’s the only way I can keep them alive. The slaughter of the seventies and eighties must not be allowed to happen again. My breeding program here is too important; we can’t lose this species,’ Peta said.
‘Jamison said you were passionate about your wildlife, and you grew up in this reserve, with your dad as head ranger,’ Wayne said. ‘This park must have been something back then.’
‘It was, but times changed,’ Peta said, and made a conscious effort to smooth over the frown she knew showed on her forehead. ‘For one, we didn’t have those white skulls decorating the entrance as you come in; those rhino and elephant were alive then ...’
‘Peta! Why are there trucks here so early in the morning?’ yelled her father, and Peta groaned.
‘Speak of the devil,’ she said. ‘Over here, Dad.’
Rodger walked towards her. He dragged his leg as if it were a useless appendage, but walked at speed, hopping forward like a buz-zard. He wore a black patch over the eye that had been taken out when he was shot in the head, and looked a little like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, grotesqu
e and disfigured despite the plastic surgery. Some days his mind was okay, but there were moments like this when he became startled and she would have to assure him that all was still right in the world. Then there were the bad days. She preferred not to dwell on those.
‘Dad, it’s fine. Remember I told you I was going to the auction in South Africa to bring back a new black rhino as part of the program?’
‘Damn thing will just die of sleeping sickness; not sure why you bother,’ Rodger said. ‘Then you will need to pay compensation to whoever lent him to you.’
‘AWIC bought this one for my research. You know I have to keep trying or the animals could become interbred. We don’t want that, do we?’
‘Who are you?’ he asked, turning to the Wild Transportation team.
‘Wayne.’ He stepped forward. ‘And this is my business partner, Jamison, and the other team are Moeketsi and Hawk—’
‘Well at least there’s one white face there,’ Rodger interrupted.
‘Please excuse my father; sometimes he forgets that it’s not 1965 and we are not a colonial country any more,’ Peta said.
‘It is okay,’ Jamison said. ‘No offence taken. Mr de Jonge, do you remember me? We met before. You had me visit here at Matusadona for two weeks. I used to work for Rose Crosby of Malabar Farm in Karoi. We spoke about creating Amarose Lodge.’
‘I remember; you were the totsi who came with a letter instructing me to teach you everything I’d learnt in my life in just two weeks. That madam of yours called too, bossy woman. How’s she these days?’
‘She moved to South Africa in 1992, and I am very sad to say, but she crossed over. She was very old.’
‘Sorry to hear that. She was a tough old broad,’ Rodger said.
Peta turned to her father and threaded her arm through his. ‘Dad, we’re about to unload the rhino. Come stand at the boma fence with me.’ She moved him away from the others, and Tsessebe was soon standing next to them. ‘Can you stay here together? I need to check on something.’