Trackers
Page 9
Their arrival coincides with FIFA's inspection of building progress on the 12 October, when Mr Sepp Blatter, boss of FIFA, and a delegation of some sixty officials will supervise a sod-turning ceremony.
'Jesus,' said Tau Masilo.
He stared at the screen for a long time. Then he printed out the article. And phoned Janina Mentz.
BOOK 2: LEMMER
(The Black Swan)
September 2009
The art of tracking involves each and every sign of animal
presence that can be found in nature, including ground spoor,
vegetation spoor, scent, feeding signs, urine, faeces, saliva,
pellets, territorial signs, paths and shelters, vocal and other
auditory signs, visual signs, incidental signs, circumstantial
signs and skeletal signs.
The Basics of Tracking: Spoor Identification. (From: The Art of Tracking, New Africa Books, December 31,1995, Louis W Liebenberg)
19
Territorial boundaries may be scent-marked with urine, faeces or scent transferred to bushes from special scent organs.
The Basics of Tracking: Classification of signs
I don't go looking for trouble, it comes looking for me.
Eleven on a Saturday morning at the tail end of September. Emma le Roux and I, alone together in the Red Pomegranate. My world at this moment near perfect, complete. The lazy sounds of Loxton village, a wagtail chirping hello as it bobbed over the restaurant threshold, a sunbeam shining through the north window. I had finished my big breakfast with gusto; the filter coffee tasted rich and strong. Emma was still eating her fresh scones with jam and cream, slowly and with obvious pleasure. A pot of tea stood waiting. Her skin glowed and there was a blush to her cheeks, because only two hours earlier we had been entangled on the sheets of my bed. Now she was describing the book she was reading in a voice that was always deeper than her delicate figure suggested. On the perfect bow of her lip, a fleck of cream, like a snowflake.
It was all too good to be true, because I am Lemmer. The gods must have woken, because a faint sound, deep, mechanical, grew louder, until Emma stopped talking and turned her head. Tannie Wilna, the heart and soul of the Red Pomegranate, came in from the kitchen wiping her hands on her skirt. 'Do you hear that too?'
We listened as the rolling thunder grew, the direction clearer. An invasion via the Carnarvon Road.
We all looked out on the wide traffic circle around the church. The village seemed to pause, people tumbled out of the general dealer, out of the farmers co-op. A group of coloured children came running from the direction of the church hall, their shouts drowned in the cacophony. They pointed excited fingers up the street.
A dramatic entry on the traffic circle, at nine o'clock: outlandish creatures of chunky chrome, steel and black. Long leather tassels fluttering from handlebars and saddlebags, four Harley Davidsons - the riders in shades and stupid helmets, garish bandanas pulled over their mouths and noses, arms and legs stretched to reach the pedals and handlebars. They disappeared behind the church, followed the curve around to the restaurant and pulled up in front of it. They shoved the back ends of the bikes towards us, neatly in line, the front wheels pointing to the street. A final revving of the engines, an ear-splitting racket, stands kicked out and the bandanas pulled down.
Merciful silence.
The number plates were tiny. I read them in order. NV ME. BOY'S TOY. LOUD, PROUD. And HELLRAZOR. All from the Cape.
NV ME climbed down from his throne, unbuckled his helmet, pulled off the fingerless leather gloves, then the tasselled leather jacket. He had steel grey hair, stylishly and expensively trimmed, and a boyish face full of confidence. The T-shirt somewhat tight.
He cast an imperious gaze across Loxton. 'Fucking one-horse town,' was his verdict, pronounced for all to hear.
The labourers from the shop sidled up, the children came running.
All four riders had their feet on solid ground, leather trousers, shiny black boots, adorned with silver baroque. All were on the fib-side of forty. Number two was big, maybe two metres tall, number three was short and small with a ratface. Number four was average, but sporty.
'Stand back! You can look, but no touching,' Steel Grey ordered the children.
They stared at him wide-eyed, but kept their distance.
The Knights of Harley trooped in, led by Steel Grey, followed by Ratface and Sporty. The Big Guy covered the rear. A pecking order.
'Good morning,' Tannie Wilna said, 'welcome to Loxton,' with the affectionate warmth she offered everybody.
They inspected her and her restaurant. 'Do you have any beer?' Steel Grey asked, unimpressed.
Emma turned back to me, shaking her head slightly and ate her scone.
'Unfortunately we are not licensed, but the bottle store is just across the way. I'll send Mietjie over quickly. Please, sit down ...' and she held out her hand to the large table for six.
Steel Grey checked me over once. Ratface eyed Emma speculatively.
They sat down. The back of Sporty's T-shirt read 'If you can read this, the bitch fell off.?
Tannie Wilna brought them menus. 'What beer do you prefer?'
'Black Label,' said Steel Grey. 'Cold.'
'Run over and fetch us four Black Labels from Zelda, please,' Tannie Wilna said to Mietjie. 'Ask her for the cold ones.'
'Make that twelve, Aunty,' said Steel Grey.
'Lots of drinking to do,' said the Big Guy.
'The Thirstland Trek,' said Ratface, court jester to the House of Harley. They all laughed. Hu-hu-hu. Comrades.
Mietjie went out on her errand. A moment's silence.
Outside four coloured people rode by on a donkey cart towards Beaufort, the hooves clip-clopping on the tar. Sporty watched them, and said, 'Back roads.' The others guffawed again, some in-joke. They began a conversation, voices louder than necessary so that we, the audience, could listen.
Emma gave me a small, nostalgic smile, acknowledging that our magic moment was over.
20
Rabid animals are often characterised by unusual behaviour, which may include attacking humans.
The Basics of Tracking: Dangerous animals
'Where were we?' she asked quietly.
'The Black Swan,' I said and sipped my coffee. It was the gripping book she had been telling me about.
'I was just about finished anyway.' Emma poured tea into her cup and picked up the last scone.
At the next table Steel Grey announced he was going to buy a Porsche Cayenne.
'Why?' Sporty asked, 'Your Q7, it's a year old.'
'Because I can.'
Hu-hu-hu.
Steel Grey was trying too hard to be the bold, tough vagabond, the
Hell's Angel clone. Clearly he was well-off, but the masquerade revealed some deep discontent. He probably had some high position in a large corporation, senior management, but the role of chief executive had eluded him, probably because his bosses saw the vicious dictator inside him. Best guess: Financial Services sector, Fund Manager. Risk, adrenaline, big bucks, megalomania, consuming ambition.
I considered the others. The Big Guy was the easiest to place; he was Steel Grey's corporate underling, his watchdog. The other two were more difficult, not colleagues, but kindred spirits. Steel Grey's clients, possibly. Played golf together, had long drinking-buddy lunches and the occasional sneaky visit to Teasers. All four were rich Afrikaners from Cape Town's northern suburbs, off on a flight of fancy in the school holidays, having parked the wife and children at the beach house in Hermanus. But the chasm between what they really were and the image they wanted to project was just too wide.
'You've got too many toys,' said Ratface.
'Toy makes the boy,' the Big Guy said and looked to Steel Grey for approval.
He got it: 'Fucking right.'
So they began talking about their possessions.
Mietjie arrived with the beer, and Tannie Wilna served them. 'Forget the glasses
,' said the Big Guy.
They drank deeply from the bottles, with great satisfaction. Steel Grey banged his bottle down hard on the table, wiped his mouth. 'Mother's milk.'
Emma leaned over her tea towards me. 'Regression,' she whispered. 'Students again.'
More like complete arseholes, I thought.
'More beer,' Ratface shouted.
Tannie Wilna brought it.
As she passed us I asked for the bill.
'Aren't you going to have a double thick?' she asked, surprised. The Knights went suddenly silent, listening intently.
'Not today, thank you, Tannie,' I said quietly.
'Double thick,' giggled Ratface.
Hu-hu-hu. And they drink more beer.
'The scones were delicious,' Emma said to Tannie Wilna.
'Thank you, Emmatjie.'
Emma poured more tea into her cup.
'Emmatjie, come and sit with us,' said Sporty.
'Don't bother, she's double thin,' said Ratface.
'The closer the bone, the sweeter the meat,' said Sporty.
Hu-hu-hu.
'He looks a bit thi-i-i-ck,' said the Big Guy, looking at me and tapping his head.
Lemmer's first Loxton Law: No hand to be raised in anger in town. I stood up, walked over to the counter, and took out my wallet with my back to them.
'Why, wasn't Jesus born in Loxton?' asked Ratface.
Tannie Wilna frowned.
'Because they couldn't find one wise man here,' said Steel Grey.
Hu-hu-hu.
'Couldn't find a virgin either,' said Big Guy.
Hu-hu-hu, an octave higher.
Tannie Wilna wrote out our bill. Slowly and carefully as ever.
'I don't know, Emmatjie looks like she could be a virgin still,' said Steel Grey.
I put my hand on the counter, let my head drop, breathed slowly. Inhale, exhale. I knew how their minds worked. They had checked me out, seen a grey, skinny country bumpkin and they had found courage in their numbers.
'Double-thin virg-in,' said Sporty.
'You're a poet, and you know it,' said the Big Guy.
'Emma, oh, Emma,' Ratface sang.
Hu-hu-hu.
'... go and tell your grandma, this uncle wants a baby with you.'
Raucous laughter at his version of the old Afrikaans song Emma, ko' le ma'.
I opened my wallet, fingers poised, ready to pay. I could see the tremor in my hands.
'Don't worry, Emma, I'll be gentle with you,' said Ratface.
'Or maybe not,' said Sporty.
Hu-hu-hu.
I heard Emma's chair scrape back. I knew the trouble had arrived.
'Come on, then,' said Emma. 'Just try.'
'Hoooo ...' said Ratface, but with diminished bravado.
Emma's voice cut like a knife: 'I wonder what your wife would say if she could see you now. And your children ...'
They had no smart alec reply to that.
'That will be ninety-five rand,' said Tannie Wilna in a whisper. For her sake we had to get out of here. Now.
'You are so pathetic,' said Emma.
Pregnant silence. I hastily put the money down on the counter and turned. Emma faced them all, her body taut with fury. 'Emma ...' I said, because I had seen her in action before, seen her nine months ago poking a delicate finger into a burly policeman's chest, repeatedly and fearlessly.
I saw Steel Grey's face, the venom, and I knew what he said next would change everything. I was on my way to Emma when he said, 'Who the fuck do you think you are?'
I clung desperately to my last shred of self-control. My head screamed: Walk away.
' You are fucking pathetic, you scrawny little bitch,' Steel Grey hissed.
Rage washed all resolve away. I changed my direction, towards him.
21
Spoor includes a wide range of signs, from obvious footprints, which provide detailed information on the identity and activities of an animal, to very subtle signs, which may indicate nothing more than that some disturbance had occurred.
The Basics of Tracking: Classification of signs
'Hell, those are bloody beautiful bikes out there, you guys must be stinking rich,' a deep jovial voice emanated from the doorway. A large body swiftly stepped in front of me, a familiar face winked at me, diverted me. 'Lemmer, buddy, I've been looking all over town for you,' as though he knew me well.
I registered who he was, somewhere in the back of my mind.
Diederik Brand, local farmer. I walked around him, I wanted to start with Steel Grey and I wanted to hurt them. The Big Guy was rising to his feet.
Emma saw me and came to her senses. 'Lemmer, no,' she said.
Diederik put a broad, firm hand on my shoulder and spoke in a soothing voice: 'You don't want to do this to yourself.' He turned to their table. 'Gentlemen, tell me, what does one of those babies cost?' Steering me towards the exit at the same time.
Emma saw his plan, and she took my other arm, cool hand on my skin.
'Two hundred and twenty,' said Ratface in a voice squeaky with tension, 'Without the extras.'
Diederik and Emma had me at the door. My eyes were on Steel Grey, he saw something in them and looked away.
'Incredible,' said Diederik. 'Lovely machines,' and then we were outside and he said quietly, 'that's not what you want.'
Emma tugged hard on my arm. 'I shouldn't have lost my temper,' she said. 'I should have ignored them.'
'No,' I said and strained back towards the restaurant.
'Lemmer!' said Diederik Brand sharply. I looked at him, saw two dimples and a reassuring smile.
I stopped.
'Listen,' he said. 'How would you like to save the last two black rhino in Zimbabwe?' As if it were the most logical thing to ask, in the circumstances.
I only knew two facts about Diederik Brand. He farmed, in a big way, between the Sak River and the Nuweveld Mountains. When Loxton folk mentioned his name they said 'Ay, that Diederik,' and then they would laugh and shake their heads, as if he were some beloved but mischievous son.
I had seen him around, mostly just a hairy arm waving from a bakkie window as he drove by. Now he was sitting in my living room, on the new leather couch that was Emma's peace offering after rolling my trusty Isuzu on the bend in the gravel road just before Jakhalsdans.
We had driven here with him, both he and Emma gently convincing me that the Knights weren't worth the trouble. I was listening to
Brand, with a part of my mind still in the Red Pomegranate meting out punishment.
Diederik was a large man, in his fifties, broad shouldered, with the sun-beaten face of all Karoo farmers. Black and grey hair curled over his ears and the collar of the neat khaki shirt. He sported a military moustache and there were laugh lines around his mischievous eyes. His natural charm was of the engaging, self-deprecating sort. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and told his fascinating tale skilfully and with great urgency. Emma hung on his every word.
'For two years we've been trying to get hold of black rhino, but it's not easy. It's practically impossible to get a permit - there is a hell of a waiting list, you have to be approved, have a big enough farm, the right habitat. You have to be prepared to get involved with the breeding programmes. The National Parks get preference. Last year Zambia got the only ten available, because since '98 they have been thought to be totally extinct there. The black rhino is expensive, we're talking half a million rand per head. So, one has to make a plan, because they were once native to this area, long ago. Now, because I've been asking all over, everyone in the industry knows I am looking for the animals. Three weeks ago a guy called me from Zimbabwe, someone from Zim Nature Conservation, squeezed out long ago by Mugabe's storm troopers, but still running private safaris in the Chete. Anyway, he called and he said they had found a bull and a cow, by chance, on the banks of the Sebungwe River, just south of Kariba. The animals were frightened, wild, very aggressive, you couldn't get near them. He said if we didn't save them, they would s
oon be shot for their horns anyway, but he didn't have the money for sedation and transport. If I would put up the money for expenses, they would smuggle the animals to the border, I would just have to pick them up there. That's not as easy as it sounds. Sebungwe is 700 km by road from the South African border and they would have to be careful with all the roadblocks and things. It's quite a sacrifice on their part, but for all of us it's about —'
He stopped suddenly, mid sentence, and glanced towards the window. Outside we could hear the high drone of an aeroplane, a single engine, growing louder. Diederik Brand nodded as though he had been expecting it.
Our sleepy little town. As busy as a termites' nest this Saturday morning.
'Mr Brand, can I offer you some coffee?' Emma took advantage of the pause. I sat there wondering what his story had to do with me.
'Diederik, call me Diederik. Emma, thanks, but no. Trouble is, we haven't got time.' He picked up the black file that he had put down on the wagon box coffee table when he came in, and flipped it open. He paged through the pile of documents. 'Now, the first thing I did was talk to our Minister's people. It's no good arriving at the border with the animals if they can't come in. Environmental Affairs are very sympathetic, I think they feel some guilt about Zim, if you understand what I mean, but it's a problem for them because we won't get a certificate of origin, no export permit from Zim, it's smuggling whichever way you look at it.'
He selected a document and placed it solemnly on the wagon box. 'Now, there are a couple of things that made the breakthrough. The first one is the gene pool. In South Africa it's tiny, our black rhino are almost all descendants of the Kwazulu and Kruger herds. So in that respect the Zim animals are priceless. I had to sign an agreement that gives Nature Conservation first option on the calves. The second thing is that I am remote. Only a handful of people will know that I am going to breed rhino, you among them, so please, keep it between us because the horns are selling at around $20,000 a kilogram here, that's more than $60,000 for one horn, almost half a million rand. The third thing is, I have the space, and my fences are electrified. Here ...' and he tapped his large finger on the document'... is my permit.'