by Tony Park
Wildlife World, which produces Chapman’s award-winning documentaries, refused to comment, as did the star’s agent. Chapman is said to be filming in Botswana for a forthcoming series of specials for the cable TV company.
Staff at the University of Montana were stunned to learn of Chapman’s checkered past, with one former academic colleague, who asked not to be named, saying Chapman was well respected before leaving academia to pursue a career in television.
A back-handed compliment, if ever she had heard one, Sonja thought as she lowered the magazine and leaned back against her pack. She’d thought Chapman just another perfect product of a soft, well-fed suburban life; a smart man who had capitalised on his good looks to find a shortcut to the American dream.
Chapman has had other contact with juvenile delinquents later in life, reportedly working as a volunteer at so-called ‘brat camps’ where he teaches young inmates about survival in the wild. It’s not known if he has ever shared his dark past with any of the kids he has worked with.
There were several pictures of Sam with the article. There was a shot of him administering a drug or taking a blood sample from a sleeping coyote; a frame taken in front of Ayers Rock, now known as Uluru, in the middle of Australia; and another one of him walking from the surf at a beach. He had a perfect set of abs. She remembered the feel of his warm skin on hers as she took his hand. Her face reddened when she remembered how she’d held onto it for too long.
It was dark by the time she grabbed her towel and a bar of soap and headed for the small ablution block in the campground. Inside the ladies she stepped into the shower cubicle and stripped. Sonja turned the hot tap on, but no water came out. The pipes juddered and groaned somewhere behind the wall. ‘Shit,’ she mouthed. She tried the cold and the same thing happened. She wrapped her towel around her and fastened it above her breasts and picked up her clothes.
Outside she paused outside the door to the gents side of the block. The light was out and there was no sound from inside. She pushed the door open and peeked inside. The curtain to the single shower stall was half open, but she could see no one inside. There was no one else in the campground, so there was little chance of anyone disturbing her. She laid her clothes down on a bench and stepped further into the darkness.
Then she heard the breathing. It was deep, but rapid.
Next she smelled him, the strong rich odour of his body.
Shit! There was a man in there, behind the half-drawn curtain. Sonja bent to grab her things and only then noticed that hanging on the back of the door she’d just come in through were Sam’s jeans and bush shirt.
Sonja took a step on tiptoe towards the door and reached for it, but recoiled as she saw movement in the half-light. Sam had turned and was leaning, with one hand up against the tile wall. She ducked backwards so that she was concealed by the wall of the toilet cubicle, but she could just see around the edge of the partition. Sam’s arm was moving.
She caught her breath and dared not take another in case he heard her. He was breathing louder now. She rested her cheek against the wall and watched him through one eye. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom she saw his hand, wrapped around his thick, engorged penis. She stared at it.
He worked his palm up high over the head, then squeezed as he slid it down his shaft. She could hear the slickness of his natural lubrication. Tearing her gaze from it she saw him lean his head back, his mouth half open as he breathed out.
The well-defined muscles in his back and shoulders glistened with perspiration as his hand and breathing increased their pace. He shifted again and moved his left hand from the wall to the shower tap. The water pattered on the plastic curtain and he replaced his hand on the wall. He’d shifted in the process so she could see more of him, though his back was to her now so she couldn’t see his right hand or his cock.
Sonja felt the moisture seep from deep within her and her nipples strain against the weave of the towel. She swallowed and allowed herself a half-drawn breath. Her face was on fire, and she wanted to run for the door. And she wanted to run for the curtain and rip it to one side.
Sam raised himself up on to his toes, his beautifully chiselled backside clenching in the process. He threw his head back further and let out a gasp of relief as his whole body shuddered.
Sonja darted to the door of the block, slipped outside and ran, barefoot, through the campground to her tent. She hastily unzipped, threw her clothes inside and lay down on her mattress. Her heart was racing as she stretched out, but it threatened to explode from her chest as she came in the darkness.
Sonja braked to let a trio of male kudus cross the road. The middle antelope paused and stared at them for a second, then gave a toss of his long curved antlers and leapt away, his white tail curled protectively across his rump.
It wasn’t a close call as she had cut her speed to eighty kilometres after they crossed the border into Namibia at Shakawe. Botswana, Namibia and South Africa were all part of a common customs zone, so there was no problem taking the vehicle across borders. Sonja held her breath while the African woman on the Botswana side scanned her passport, but the forgery was good – Steele maintained the best sources around the world – and the document passed inspection on both sides of the border. Sonja made a mental note of the Namibian Army bakkie parked behind the customs and immigration building, and the two soldiers who chatted to a cleaner leaning on her mop outside. The soldiers, in camouflage, were armed with AK-47s. It wasn’t a large force, but nor was it common to see armed military men at a border post in this part of the world.
The country around Shakawe on the Botswana side was given over to commercial farming – crops and cattle – but as soon as they crossed the line into Namibia they were in wilderness, with brittle bone-dry bush on their flanks. It was why Sonja took it slowly, as there was little warning if an animal wanted to cross. A yellow-billed kite wheeled above them patrolling the road in search of roadkill.
‘What’s this place?’ Sam asked from behind her.
‘The Mahango Game Reserve. It’s about thirty thousand hectares. The Okavango River is off to our right and beyond that is the beginning of the much larger Bwabwata National Park, which was called the West Caprivi Game Reserve when I was younger.’
She watched him in the rear-view mirror, nodding at her explanation, then recalled the sight of him rising on his toes in the shower. She looked out the driver’s side window in case Cheryl-Ann saw her blush. Sonja had imagined him on her, in her, as she’d touched herself in the tent and wondered if it was her he’d been thinking of in the shower.
Sonja pushed the distracting thoughts from her mind. She’d play the tour guide for the TV people, but her other job was to assess the landmarks they passed from a military planner’s point of view. The Mahango Game Reserve extended north to within about twelve kilometres of Popa Falls, near where the dam was being built. If Steele’s force infiltrated Namibia near Shakawe the reserve would provide cover for part of their journey, or perhaps a hidden bush base where they could group and prepare for an assault. There would be Namibian Wildlife Authority rangers patrolling the reserve, but not enough of them to pose a threat to a force of heavily armed mercenaries. Sonja would have liked to have taken a boat up the Okavango from Drotsky’s Camp to the border, to see what kind of controls were in place on the river itself, but there was no way to justify the trip.
‘Big five country?’ Gerry asked.
Sonja shook her head. ‘All the rhino were killed here decades ago, but there are still lion, buffalo, elephant and leopard, plus occasional sightings of wild dog and cheetah.’
‘Cool,’ said the sound man.
Rickards yawned and Sonja could smell the stale booze on his breath. Cheryl-Ann sat in silence, watching the greys and browns of the thorny bushveld pass her by. Sonja had arrived late for dinner, just as the others were finishing, and ordered herself a snack from the bar. She didn’t feel like a confrontation with Cheryl-Ann and, besides, they were talking business, planning t
he shoots for the next few days. She had half feared she might stumble on Sam eating alone, or that he might make an excuse to stay back in the restaurant with her, but he left with the others and nodded a polite goodnight to her as she ate her burger and drank another two beers by herself to calm her pulse.
They had all breakfasted together early that morning and Sonja had eyed the other woman off across the table. Polite and friendly, but a long way from friends. That was fine by Sonja and she hoped it would be enough for Cheryl-Ann.
‘I phoned ahead,’ Cheryl-Ann said. ‘They definitely have cabins available for us tonight.’
So there would be no fighting over tents. ‘Good.’
Cheryl-Ann looked away from the scenery and across to Sonja. ‘Did you have trouble with the water in the shower block, Sonja?’
‘Um … yes.’
‘I complained to reception, but they just told me to use the other block. It was way down the other end of the camp. That’s really not good enough.’
Sonja shrugged. ‘I just used the men’s shower.’ She couldn’t resist a glance in the rear-view mirror as she said it and when she looked up she saw Sam looking her way. It felt like his eyes were searching for hers and she shifted her gaze immediately.
‘You’re coming on the river cruise with us this afternoon, Sonja.’
It was said as a statement rather than a question, but Sonja was pleased nonetheless. Cheryl-Ann would want her there to ensure they correctly identified any birds and mammals they saw during the filming, but Sonja wanted to do a recce of the stretch of river leading to the falls and the dam wall. If she hadn’t been automatically included on the river cruise she would have asked to come along, or booked one for herself. The last option was the least desirable, though, as it might have aroused the TV crew’s suspicions. ‘That’ll be great, Cheryl-Ann. I never get sick of going out on the river,’ she said.
Ngepi Camp was a couple of kilometres off the main road, towards the river on a sandy but firm track that passed a village and some local people tending a few cows. The camp itself was on a sand island, though the tributary of the Okavango they passed over, via an earth and rock causeway, was dry. Sonja wondered when it had last flowed. She parked and walked into the reception building, which was open on three sides.
Cheryl-Ann bustled up to the bar, but Sonja hung back and looked around her. She’d heard abut Ngepi, but never stayed here. The camp and its accommodation were pitched at new-age backpackers and free-wheeling overland travellers. It was fun and funky. Every sign around reception seemed to contain a joke and some of them were funny. Behind the bar was the obligatory collection of baseball caps and foreign currency bills stuck to a wall. Overhead was a poster of Che Guevara, and the Namibian flag hung from the rafters of the thatched roof. Sonja wandered past a fire pit surrounded by benches made from old sausage tree mekoros, and onto a wooden platform that jutted out over the river.
The river in front of Drotsky’s had been divided into narrow channels by islands of pampas grass and papyrus. Here, further upriver and much closer to the dam, the river was wide and open, though judging by the pinkish brown back of a hippo that protruded above the water’s surface, it was not all that deep. She could see the far shore, several hundred metres away, which was the beginning of the Bwabwata National Park. More country that was largely empty, except for animals.
A force travelling by boat might be able to conceal itself by taking a quiet channel downstream, but here all traffic was clearly visible from both sides of the river.
The Okavango was flowing quite fast, judging by the stems of grass and a plastic bag that motored past her. Beneath the platform was a swimming cage, about eight by eight metres, held afloat by old fuel drums and fringed with a rickety-looking wooden walkway. The cage was to protect swimmers from wildlife. Hippo, it was often said, killed more people than any other animal in Africa, but Sonja knew crocodiles were responsible for savaging and killing plenty of locals who swam, bathed, and herded their cattle on the edges of the rivers in the Kavango and Caprivi regions of Namibia. A girl in a bikini, with a large tattoo of a butterfly on the red skin of her back, was sunbathing. An African man with dreadlocks and a runner’s build was kneeling on the walkway, pulling out clumps of grass and weed, and another bag that had snagged on the mesh of the cage. A sign warned swimmers that if they pissed in the cage they’d be drinking it later, downstream in Maun. Sonja conceded a smile.
Cheryl-Ann came out onto the deck followed by the men, like a mother duck.
She waited until she had reached Sonja before producing the keys she had collected from reception. ‘Here you go, Sam, Gerry and Jim. You’ve each got what they call a treehouse bungalow, on the water.’
Sonja said nothing and didn’t put her hand out for a key. She had already guessed what was coming.
‘Sonja, I’m afraid we didn’t book a room for you. The plan was always for the guide to camp in or with the vehicle, to look after it.’
‘No problem. It shouldn’t be too far from the camp site to your bungalows, so you won’t have too far to carry your gear.’
Rickards made a face behind Cheryl-Ann’s back and Sam just rolled his eyes. She cared nothing for the petty point scoring Cheryl-Ann had initiated. In fact, she cared nothing for these spoiled people and their insignificant contribution to the world. ‘The Land Rover’s unlocked. I’m going to check out the camp site.’
Sonja headed down the sandy path to the floating swimming cage. The reddened girl was still baking on the wooden deck and the African guy Sonja had seen earlier was sitting on the edge with his feet in the water.
‘Morning,’ he said.
‘Howzit?’ Sonja said.
‘Fine and you?’
‘Lekker, man.’ Because of her shortage of clothes Sonja was wearing her bikini under her safari clothes, as underwear. She took off her shirt and slid out of her sandals and shorts and did a shallow dive into the confines of the cage. The water was cool and as soon as she surfaced she felt the current drag her to the downstream end of the enclosure. She turned and started a lazy breaststroke against the river’s flow. With a little effort she maintained a stationary position in the centre of the floating pool. It was a novel way to get a little exercise, and a good reminder that any approach towards the dam would have to be done in boats with outboard motors. Even though the river was low, the current was still fast, so stealthy kayaks were probably out of the question.
‘Looks like you’re getting nowhere,’ the African man said, smiling.
‘You don’t know how right you are, my friend.’
He laughed.
‘I saw you pulling rubbish out of the cage before,’ she said. ‘Do you work here?’
‘No, but it doesn’t mean I don’t care for the environment. That dam they’re building upstream is responsible for too much pollution.’
‘How so?’
‘Plastic bags and other rubbish dumped by the construction workers in the water, oil and diesel from the trucks and bulldozers, unchecked flows of silt during construction. Anywhere else in the world they’d be prosecuted.’
‘Anywhere else in the world and it wouldn’t have been built, for environmental reasons. You sound like you know what you’re talking about.’
He laughed again, deep and hearty. ‘Don’t let the ’do and the duds fool you, sister,’ he said, pointing at his dreadlocks and the shiny red baggy board shorts he wore, hanging low down on his arse so his Calvin Klein underwear was showing at the back. ‘I’ve got a degree in Environmental Management from the University of Zimbabwe, but the only way I can made a buck is as a guide on an overland tour truck. That dam’s going to kill a beautiful thing.’ The white girl stirred, sat on the edge of the pool and slid in. ‘The locals won’t notice it so much here upriver, but it’s going to kill the environment downstream, and hurt the tourism business at the same time. All because of greed.’
Sonja nodded. ‘For water?’
‘For money,’ the guide said. ‘Some
people have big plans for the Caprivi Strip once that dam is finished. It’s not just about hydro-electricity and water for Windhoek; there are plans for more mines, including diamonds, and large-scale commercial farming up there.’ He gestured north, over his shoulder, with a thumb. ‘Big money.’
*
‘That incredible bird, flying just above the water with its bill in the water, is an African skimmer,’ Sam said to the camera. The boatman had cut the outboard and they were drifting silently, swiftly, down the Okavango.
‘It’s listed as near-threatened and there are as few as fifteen thousand of these incredible creatures left on earth. It catches small fish by flying with its lower beak – its mandible – just beneath the surface of the water. Amazing.’
‘Great,’ Cheryl-Ann said.
‘I’m loving this light,’ Rickards said, panning slowly and pulling back on the focus to take in more of the sky, which was a triple-layer cocktail of deep pink, gold and azure.
Sam looked to Sonja, who was scanning the bank through binoculars. ‘Why is the species threatened?’
She lowered her binoculars. ‘Habitat destruction, especially because of dams. Rising waters flood the sand bars and banks where they breed. Also, pesticides and other run-off from intensive farming can kill the little fish that the skimmers feed on. You should put that in your program.’
‘Jim?’ Sam said. The cameraman held up a finger, wanting to catch a few more seconds of vision of the sky.
‘Let’s not get into politics until we’ve had a chance to inspect the dam and interview the folks upriver,’ Cheryl-Ann announced.
Sam was about to argue, but he knew it would be pointless. The more he learned about the hydro-electric power plan for the Okavango, the less he liked the sound of it, but perhaps Cheryl-Ann had a point. There seemed to be a truce between the two women on the boat this evening, but it was still an uneasy one.