Murder on Safari

by Peter Riva

  Simon drove the long-wheelbase Land Rover with all the vents closed and the heating roaring, until Pero turned it off. It was morning and, being a Kenyan, Simon was feeling the cold. Pero was in the middle and Mbuno on the left. Pero and Mbuno exchanged news. Pero learned of his wife, Niamba, doing well at Giraffe Manor and Mbuno talked about the pending drought. Mbuno learned that Pero had been filming the Great White shark off Durban, which sounded very frightening. Mbuno likes the seaside, sometimes took his wife there, but not enough to deal with such hatari papa (dangerous sharks). Seeing Mbuno’s grimace at the mention of sharks, Pero changed the subject to explain his plans for filming up north and then perhaps a quick stop at Alec Wildenstein’s ranch Ol Jogi, which was not in the script, so far.

  Meanwhile, the three on the back seat, Priit, Heep, and Ruis were complaining about the mess in the Customs and immigration halls at Nairobi Airport.

  “It is just like always, no?” Priit’s singsong voice always made Pero smile.

  Ruis finished Priit’s comment, “And they should film that damn mess one day, Heep, no one believes the chaos there when I tell them.”

  Pero answered for Heep, “The Kenyan authorities would arrest you. If tourists saw this on TV, they would never come here. Bad for business. Me? I prefer it this way. If it was efficient and easy, most of the people would come back, then there would be nothing wild left anywhere. Anyway, Ruis, you’re a fine one to talk. Madagascar is worse, much worse.”

  “Okay, I’ll grant you that, but they rebuilt this place for millions of dollars. . . . Couldn’t they have made this work a little better?”

  Pero knew what was really bothering him and chuckled, “You get hit with the twenty-dollar fine for a wrong visa again?” Not having American passports, they had no doubt needed to buy the “special visa” on landing, essentially a bribe.

  Ruis smiled, shrugged his shoulders and looked sheepish, “Yeah, every damn time. They hate us southerners.” And, being old hands at Africa filming, they all laughed.

  Heep turned the conversation back to business, “Ol Jogi? You want to film Rudi again?” Rudi was a behemoth of a black rhino who loved sugarcane. The last time they had filmed there, for a car commercial, Rudi had tried to get in the car to steal the sugar cane on the back seat. As the car was doing over twenty miles per hour at the time, driving became more than difficult. A two-ton car is no match for a two-ton determined rhino with a three-foot horn trying to squeeze through an open window. The damage was extensive.

  Laughing, Pero said, “No, my friend, we’ll leave Rudi alone. But remember that cheetah pair they imported from South Africa? I thought we might be able to put cameras in the den and watch her give birth. They are due sometime in the next weeks I heard.”

  Simon chimed in, “The Park’s team is up there studying them. They say they are perfectly tame, used to being near people. They can’t be touched, run a mile if you try, but you could film them pretty easily.”

  The Land Rover had reached the turnoff for Nairobi National Park and Simon turned in. The guards at the gate saluted as the Land Rover approached. There was no need for permits or fees, not while they were in an officially recognized safari vehicle with Park permits on the windscreen. Inside the gate, they stopped for a moment to dole out sandwiches, bottled water, and soda that Mbuno had provided. As Simon drove on again, they started lunch. Simon was on his home ground here, “We’re getting more and more big raptors in the park again. We’ve got three pair of golden eagles breeding now; see there’s one pair over that Baobab.” He paused so they could watch them swooping in a mating ritual. As they drove off again, down the dirt road, they passed a carcass being torn apart, probably a lion kill carcass. “The Egyptian storks are becoming a problem. They have taken to frightening off the hooded vultures even if they get to a carcass late. Very bold and brazen they are.” He honked the horn to demonstrate. The birds didn’t even pause their feeding.

  They drove past a pair of giraffe, enjoying a morning feed on the high up leaves of Acacia trees. Just out of their reach on the very top, the five black waiting hooded vultures, backs to the sun, scanned the sky for signs of circling cousins. A warthog mother and six new babies started to scurry across the road.

  Mbuno asked Simon to slow, so they coasted slowly forward. After the troop had crossed, Mbuno counted, “Now I count to three—one, two and three . . .” And then came the male warthog, big tusks and all, following them up, scanning side to side as he ran, seemingly on tiptoes. “The male, he never leads, it is his job to protect the family. She in front, he in the back. It is a good sized litter, very big.”

  For two hours they drove on, having a private safari guide tour, down the dip of the Athi River valley and up the other side, eventually to the Langata gate. As they came out onto the main road, they turned right, back towards Nairobi. The Park shortcut had avoided the traffic of town and acted as a ring road—an exotic ring road to be sure. After another ten minutes, passing through Langata District, they turned into Wilson Airport, Nairobi’s second airport, on the southwest of town, mostly used for charter flights and tourists hopping to exotic destinations.

  Wilson Airport is famous. It is the home of the Flying Doctor service and most of the commercial charter airline companies. There are an equal number of foreign and local pilots here. Every day flights depart to the most remote locations in what once were the real wildernesses or safari jumping off airstrips: Malindi, Mogadishu, Arusha, Magadi, Marsabit, Kisumu, Musoma, Lamu, Maasai Mara, Narok, Nakur, Lake Rudolf, and, of course, Tsavo.

  Hemingway, Bogart, Hepburn, Peck, Beard, Gardner, Wilde, Adamson, Douglas, Wayne, Naipul, Leakey—the names of the famous who plied their claim to adventure alighting from Wilson still continued to grow with names like Spielberg, Hanks, Linney, Streep, Redford, Iman, Attenborough, Gates, van Munster, and others.

  They pulled up at Mara Airways and saw a sign proclaiming Flamingo Filming Ltd. being held up by a Flamingo travel agent next to a gleaming Cessna 414. Flamingo Filming was really only a desk in the Flamingo Travel Agency manned by a secretary they could rely on, called Sheila Ndelle, sister of the UN security police chief. Being inside a large tourist travel agency, Flamingo had access to all the computer booking services. The agent handed Pero the tickets and vouchers for the camp where they were heading. Pero signed the receipt, locally called a chit, and Sheila quickly said goodbye.

  The Kenyatta Airport Schenker customs agent was also already there, supervising loading. “All twenty-seven cases accounted for and complete, Mr. Pero Baltazar, Sir.” Smiling, Pero thanked him and handed him an unsealed envelope he had prepared the day before. It contained one crisp $100 bill. The agent peered inside and beamed. “Thank you, Sir, very, very much, Sir.” He paused and reached down for a small flight bag, “Oh, and this is your private bag, Sir.” He handed it to Pero saying simply “It arrived yesterday, Sir.”

  “Thanks for the good work. Regards to Schenker.” Pero extended his hand.

  The agent shook it, nodded, and walked off, then turned and waved and disappeared around the corner.

  “New man, Pero?” Heep asked.

  Pero nodded, “But same company we always use. I was advised this was a new man, seems very reliable. So far things are going well.” Pero glanced at the paperwork, “He managed to get the batteries in without duty, so he’s pretty good.” Kenyan customs were famous for charging duty on all camera batteries. Seems they cannot distinguish between special rechargeable Sony batteries for the Betacam and the ones bought at a drugstore. Or perhaps they chose not to see the difference in order to pocket the duty.

  Meanwhile, Mbuno and Simon had gotten the glider loaded down the plane’s aisle. There was no reason for delay. Pero signed the charter register that the pilot handed him who then handed it to a ground crew member, and everyone boarded. As the pilot went through the pre-flight visual check around the aircraft, Pero took his seat—right seat, behind the controls. As the boss, it was his prerogative. As a safety precaution,
it was sensible. The Australian pilot squeezed into his left seat, nodded to Pero, and twanged, “You okay to give me a hand, mate?”

  Two pairs of hands, sometimes, are better than one. Traveling to remote locations around the world meant that Pero was more than familiar with most small aircraft. When he was fully seated, lap belt on and tight, Pero found the small cubby hole near his right knee, took out and started to read the pre-flight checklist out loud.

  As the pilot started the left and then right engines to full throttle, pulled back the blades’ feather control to allow the engines to warm up, he said, “Thanks for the assist.” Pero nodded, checked the altimeter, saw the horizon even out as it spooled up, and tapped the fuel gauges to make sure they were fully accurate. The pilot nodded, “The right and left tanks are topped up—checked ‘em myself. That right gauge is faulty, it’s on my list for the mechanics.”

  Pero nodded again—he knew it was not unusual for there to be small maintenance items. He reached for the second radio, “And the frequency?”

  “One oh three point two after takeoff, thanks.”

  Pero turned the dials until the second radio was locked in, ready to use after takeoff when ground control would hand off to Kenya air traffic control. Then he settled back, folded his arms, and retracted his feet from the floor pedals. Pero was making sure the pilot knew he would not interfere with any controls, unless asked. The pilot looked over at him, smiled, and pushed transmit to ground control, “Mara flight eighty-two, bound for Ramu . . .”

  The takeoff was smooth, uneventful, and as brusque as ever. At this altitude, full speed was needed on the ground before rotating the wings for lift-off. Once the speed indicator showed one hundred ten knots, the plane leapt off the ground, the wheels came up fast to help gain airspeed, and they gained altitude quickly. Heavily loaded with equipment and six people, the pilot had wisely kept the throttles and prop pitch set to full power.

  Pero looked back and saw the crew settling in to sleep, with Mbuno in the tail, eyes closed, relaxed, probably dozing. They all knew it would be a bumpy ride; it always was that time of year, in the heat. The film crew was tired. An eight-hour red-eye flight is always tiring, even if they tried to sleep. Fatigue was creeping up on Pero as well, so he asked the pilot if he would be needing help for a while and he responded, “Nah, go on mate, get some shuteye.”

  Pero awoke with a start some time later—his nerves re-transmitting memory that there had been a sharp bump in the flight. Pero tried to calm wakened nerves. He turned in the seat and checked the crew. Everyone was dozing, only Mbuno was awake—who smiled reassurance and gestured forward. Pero looked to his left, the pilot was calm, nothing was wrong. But out the front window, he could see, in the distance, the filming target for the next few days. Mbuno knew where they were going.

  The Ajuran Plateau is a mesa rising out of the desert nothingness that is Kenya’s northeastern frontier. Looking like a small Rock of Gibraltar with a sharply sloping top (down to level on the north side), it glints red in the morning sun, appears dark and foreboding by afternoon. As a climber’s test, the cliff face is formidable, especially if you put a hand anywhere near the vulture nests. As a film location, it is majestic and definitely “not in America, Toto,” as the cable TV execs had demanded.

  The pilot interrupted Pero’s thoughts. “We’re coming into Ramu, check your belts please.” Pero turned to check everyone was complying and then read the pre-landing checklist for the Australian.

  They overflew the Ramu airstrip, a dirt track about 600 yards long with a few buildings off to the east. There were no animals to scare off and no trees to avoid, so the plane made a tight turn and came around again, landing towards the north. On touchdown full reverse props were applied and the plane slowed dramatically. Pero pointed forward, and the pilot taxied up to two Land Rovers and one driver, sporting a Flamingo Tours baseball cap, standing in the baking sun and dust near the end of the strip.

  Mbuno was the first off the plane following the pilot who dropped the door and steps. The pilot greeted the Flamingo Tours driver with “Jambo,” but the man seemed to be in a hurry to address Pero. Somewhat breathless, he quickly proclaimed, “My name is Joshua. I am your driver, I did not know . . .” Before Pero could shake his hand, from behind him, a man had stepped out of one of the Land Rovers and elbowed Joshua aside. He was wearing a tie, the mark of an official.

  “Please to call me Stephen, my name is Stephen Mbdele, I am from the Ministry of Culture and Tourism. I am your official guide and have responsibility.”

  In his most formal manner Pero turned only to the driver and replied, “How do you do Joshua, good to meet you.” Pero shook his hand. For a moment Pero ignored the other man. Government people, so-called guides, were required of all filming crews in Kenya. They got $100 a day (US currency, of course), were political appointees, and had no merit nor benefit to filming whatsoever. “Joshua, have you received the District Officer’s filming permit?” He handed it to Pero. The $500 fee was marked “paid in full.” With that authority, from the local boss of bosses, Pero could pretty much do what Pero liked.

  Pero turned to address the stooge, “How do you do, Sir, glad to have you along, on my shoot. Always glad to cooperate with authorities. Our office arranged your fee okay, did they?”

  The man nodded, “Yes, but . . .”

  Before he could add anything Pero interrupted, “Good, that’s settled then, come along for the ride, stay out of our way, and we’ll get along fine. There may even be a bonus for you when we are done.” To soften the tone Pero shook the minder’s hand. Pero refused to use his name on perverse principle. As the man started to reply with the usual official greeting and who’s boss speech, Pero said, “Ah, yes, excuse me, will you, urgent matters to attend to, glad to have you along.” Pero took Mbuno and Heep by the arm and walked out of earshot.

  Pero really had no secrets, but it was always better to keep these stooges in the dark and on the defensive. Pero had seen them stop production just to demonstrate power. Like most petty dictators, if you kept them guessing, they became quite tame, happy to tag along.

  “Heep, what say you, Mbuno, and I take one Land Rover and check out the plateau while Joshua and the rest of the crew set up camp and check equipment?”

  Heep asked, “Who’s he to go with?” motioning to the stooge.

  “I’ll deal with that. You get the plane unloaded and stowed, most in the second Land Rover, okay?” Pero walked back to the government agent and asked if he would like to be in charge of supervising the building of the campsite. He said he very much would like that, yes. Matter settled. Pero pointed him to the Land Rover being heavily loaded with Joshua’s help.

  Two hours later, the dust settling in eyes, throats, nostrils, and every nook and cranny of the Land Rover, Pero, Heep, and Mbuno were up north at the base of the Ajuran Plateau. Having reached the far side of the Plateau, the track up the slope was in front of them. They paused, as much to get their bearings as to screw up courage. Thankfully, Mbuno was driving and in low four-wheel drive they inched their way around fallen rocks the size of houses, through ruts that caused the doorsills to grate on the dirt and pebbles, and canted over at alarming angles as they traversed the hillside. It took forty-five minutes to drive to the top. The view was spectacular.

  Already late afternoon, the sun was at an angle that didn’t match what Heep wanted, the light behind them, not in their face. “It’ll have to be an early morning shoot, Pero, I’ll need the glider going down from here, see?” He swooped his hand into the void simulating the glider launch. “Then, we’ll have to drive like hell to get down, or maybe have Simon launch a second launch from Simon here after we set up below. That drive down will be scary and dangerous. We need to catch Simon against the cliff face surrounded by vultures and we’ll need the morning red glow of the cliff face to make that shot work.” Pero agreed—they’d be up early tomorrow. It was time to get down off of there, back to camp in daylight.

  Before th
ey crested the slight ridge to start the drop down the steep backside, Pero asked Mbuno to hold up. Pero got out, climbed up on top of the Land Rover, and peered through binoculars towards the north towards the Kenyan border. Pero couldn’t see anything unusual.

  What Pero hadn’t told anyone was that they had been contacted before the trip by an old Washington State Department contact who had asked him to look out for anything unusual in the border region and also ask around locally for any gossip about activity up north on the border.

  Pero had, in years past, carried documents or sometimes smuggled tiny equipment marked as film stock Not To Be Exposed for the State Department. It was risky, but Pero felt their requests earned State Department support credits, credits he may need to cash in one day. Filming in over sixty-five countries involved risks beyond the physical. Sometimes you got on the wrong side of dictators and politicians. In that event State and therefore US Embassy help would be the only thing likely to save you. His contact, now a friend after all these years, at State made the same point every time he asked a favor. But this time, being asked to look out for something “unusual” puzzled Pero. He told his contact, “Hey, look, we’re not a spy outfit, you need intelligence from the Gurreh region, arrange it yourself.”

  The man smiled, “Intelligence? Spy? What fancy words, Pero. Look, you’re up there filming already, right? Save the taxpayers’ money and if,” he stressed the if, “if you see anything unusual or hear about armed insurgents or increased weapons trafficking, or, hell I don’t know, the local chief’s daughter has been defiled by Somali marauders, just let us know. Okay?”

  Pero felt he could leave it at that. If he saw or heard anything, he could report it. If he didn’t, he would still have done State a favor. “See something, hear something, I call you. Hear nothing, see nothing, I still did you a favor, right?”