by Deon Meyer
I became aware I was angry. I knew where it was coming from. Wickus and Lollie had deprived me of something: my motivation to ... well, what did I plan to do when I caught up with Flea? Punish her? Expose her? And now? Now that the parallels had been drawn so clearly between us - a slut for a mother, a madman for a father, a youth effectively ruined by parents who should never have reproduced, and a family and society that chose to look the other way, because it wasn't their problem. Now I wished I would never find her, I hoped that whatever she had stuck on those two rhinos would bring her escape and release.
I felt like turning around and going home.
But I couldn't. I had to get my Glock back. My whole life depended on it.
Lotter looked down on the strip of cleared bush in a shallow valley between high hills and he said: 'This is going to be tricky.'
'How tricky?'
'Very tricky.'
'We don't have to land,' I said, beginning to think of alternatives, mainly involving road travel.
'Shut your eyes if you like,' with a grin that said he always wanted to test the RV-7's limits.
He flew over the landing strip again, dipping a wing to see better.
'What are you looking at?'
'There's no windsock ...'
'Is that a problem?'
'Naah ... not really.'
Then he made a wide turn before diving, aiming for a cleft between two hills. 'Hold tight.'
I seriously considered shutting my eyes.
Rocks, bush and trees only metres from the wing tips, then he turned sharply left, dropping even lower. The valley widened, the tree tops too high, too near. The engine tone dropped, he worked the pedals and joystick, the landing strip straight ahead, too short. We hit the ground with a jarring bump. Lotter braked hard, my body strained against the safety webbing. The wall of trees was coming up too fast.
I closed my eyes.
'Jeez,' said Lotter.
We stopped. I opened my eyes. The plane's propeller was not much more than two metres from the massive trunk of a baobab tree.
He turned off the engine, breathed a long sigh.
'That wasn't so bad,' he said.
'And what about taking off tomorrow?'
'Naah...Piece of cake.' But even he didn't sound convinced.
41
In difficult terrain, where signs are sparse, trackers may have to rely extensively on anticipating the animal's movements.
The Art of Tracking: Principles of tracking
Ten minutes after we landed, a battered Land Rover came rattling through the grass and thorn trees. Two black men got out and welcomed us shyly in English. Visitors weren't an everyday occurrence, it seemed.
'We will take you to camp.'
Lotter looked at the vehicle with deep interest. 'Amazing,' he said, 'Series II station wagon, the two-point-two-five diesel. This thing must be at least fifty years old.'
He was in raptures. You'd never have guessed we'd just defied death.
We each took a bag, climbed in and were shaken about on the barely discernible jeep track through the bush, disturbing a small herd of blue wildebeest and their swarm of accompanying birds. Three giraffe, aloof, ignored us. The heat was bearable here, less oppressive than in Musina.
The camp was situated on the side of a hill, a circle of light green canvas tents on wooden platforms in the shade of massive msasa trees. Beside the road was a rough sign, the words Chinhavira Camp carved out of a block of teak. There was a lapa in the middle, a few tables and chairs, a huge hearth. A man was raking the red earth between the tents. At a table beside the lapa, two other men were peeling vegetables.
Our driver said: 'Shumba will come later. I will show you your tents.'
'Shumba' had to be Ehrlichmann.
We followed him.
He appeared at sundown, a big man walking through the long shadows, crooked walking stick in hand, khaki shorts and short-sleeved shirt, sandals, a broad-brimmed hat and long silver hair down to his shoulders. A clean-shaven Moses in safari gear.
Lotter and I sat in the lapa, he had a beer, I had a Coke, since there was no Birdfield or Grapetizer. The man propped his staff against the encircling ring of wooden poles, took off his hat, smiled broadly and held out his hand as he approached us.
'I'm John Ehrlichmann,' he said in the same pleasant, modulated voice I had heard over the satellite phone.
We rose to meet him, introduced ourselves.
'Lotter.'
'Lemmer.' I expected him to ask about the state of my face, wondered what witticism Lotter had ready.
'Alliteration,' said Ehrlichmann. 'We have a lot of that up here,' and then he laughed gently. 'Welcome to Chinhavira. I see Chipinduka and Chenjerai have taken care of you.' He was close to two metres tall, his face deeply lined. He had to be on the shady side of sixty, but he made an impressive figure, vigorous and fit. The long grey hair formed a halo. An array of armbands circled his left wrist.
'Please. Sit. Enjoy your drinks. I'll be with you soon.'
'Thank you,' said Lotter.
'My pleasure.' He turned and walked slowly and solemnly towards the tents. Once he was out of hearing, Lotter said quietly: 'You know who he reminds me of?'
He liked people. So I was expecting some noble comparison. I gave him my best attempt: 'A sober Nick Nolte?'
'No,' he laughed. 'That mandrill-baboon in The Lion King, the one with the walking stick, what was his name ...? This guy has the same loping gait... Rafiki! He's bigger and he's older, but he reminds me of Rafiki.'
Rafiki Ehrlichmann was the perfect host.
When he came out again, he was showered and in his wilderness evening wear: long-sleeved khaki shirt, blue jeans and velskoen leather boots. The cascade of hair was tied back in a ponytail, the shirt sleeves turned up just enough to show the armbands. They glittered and shone in the light of twenty paraffin lamps and the big campfire. First he made sure our glasses were full, then ordered a whisky and soda for himself before joining us. He stretched out luxuriously on the camp chair and enquired delicately about our journey, seeming to want me to reveal our purpose. I wanted him to have a couple of whiskies before raising the subject. So I left Lotter to describe the flight, and our visit to Wickus and family.
Every now and then Ehrlichmann would comment briefly, with a sage nod of his grey head. Diederik Brand is a 'fine man'. On the subject of the Swanepoels he said, 'wonderful people' - clearly a popular view. When Lotter, equally intrigued by the lives of others, began asking about Ehrlichmann's, he told his story as though it were commonplace and insignificant. Born on a farm outside Gweru, boarding school in Bulawayo, BSc at the University of Cape Town, Game Warden in the Matobo National Park in the old Rhodesia days. After that he was Senior Warden at the newly established Mana Pools Park in the early eighties, later Deputy Head of the Chizarira National Park, until the Mugabe witch-hunts began. Since then he had been a concession hunter and walking tour guide. The black men who worked with him were all field guides or support personnel from his Chizarira days.
By his second whisky he skilfully steered the conversation to stories of his experiences. He had two mannerisms - stroking his right hand over his hair, and a set of his mouth, a sardonic half-smile when he came to the finale of every anecdote, an expression that said, 'There you have it'. His stories were about elephants and lions, crocodiles and hippopotami, fish eagles and dung beetles. I wondered how many times he had related them, how many foreign tourists he had regaled with them around the campfire. But he was masterful, had perfect dramatic timing, a fascination for nature, and a studied modesty, as if it were mere chance that he was so privileged.
We drank Nhedzi soup of wild mushrooms. We ate sadza, made with maize porridge and pork, served with green beans and pumpkin fritters by his quiet, efficient team. Then a bottle of French cognac appeared on the table.
'Wow,' said Lotter.
Ehrlichmann looked at me. 'I do believe you don't take alcohol.'
'No, thanks.
'
Then, as he poured a quarter glass each for himself and Lotter, 'But you did have some questions regarding the rhino.'
No, I said, my questions were about Cornel van Jaarsveld.
'Mmm ...' he said, and got up slowly, walked thoughtfully over to the glowing coals and threw on more wood. He poked a stick in the fire, waited until the flames began to lick the logs, came back to the table. 'May I ask exactly what happened?'
Sometimes you have to trust your instincts. I told him, without unnecessary detail. About the rhinos' 'dermatitis', the journey, and the attack, the amazing recovery of the animals, Flea's disappearance. I took the scrap of pink plastic out of my pocket and showed it to him. Throughout, I observed him closely, his eyes, his hands, his body language. His only reaction was raising his eyes when I described the hijacking, and a fleeting glance at my face, as if the damage made sense to him now. He took the plastic and rolled it between his fingers. He asked a few questions, about the numbers of sores, the exact size of them.
I played open cards about my suspicions about Diederik, and the Swanepoels. I told him I already suspected that he himself was involved in some way. That produced a serious nod of the head.
When I had finished, he looked away and stared into the night. 'She has such potential,' he said, to himself.
He picked up the cognac glass, rolled it between his palms, sipped at it. Rolled it again, deep in thought.
He made his 'there-you-have-it' grimace.
'I think ...'
Stroked a hand over his hair, looked at me.
'I think I know what she was smuggling.'
42
The average person should by practice and experience be able tobecome a fair tracker, but really outstanding trackers are probably born with the latent ability.
The Art of Tracking: learning to track
He paused for dramatic effect before he began.
'It will be conjecture, but I'm pretty sure ... Let me tell you the whole damn story ...'
He said it was, like everything in Zimbabwe nowadays, a bit of a circus. Two game rangers from the Chizarira National Park had been caught two years ago with twenty-two elephant tusks. There was intense international reaction from the Green faction, but only once tourism boycotts began to threaten the only remaining source of foreign currency, did the Mugabe government respond. Their conciliatory strategy was to agree to the elephant census that the WWF insisted on. This organisation approached Ehrlichmann because of his background. Flea van Jaarsveld was part of the team of more than thirty who set up camp in the national park in April.
He only really noticed her after she had outshone the other three trackers. 'She was phenomenal, I've never seen anything like it. That sixth sense ... her knowledge, detailed knowledge about the veld and the animals, insects, birds, you name it. I started keeping an eye on her. As you know, that was no hardship ...' He smiled with old man's nostalgia.
She was driven, working from sunrise to sundown. At night she mixed with different groups by turns - the WWF people, the game wardens, the volunteers, labourers and helpers. One evening she was at the table with Ehrlichmann and two spirited young veterinarians, a Hollander and an Austrian. There was a discussion about the sedation of elephants, the Europeans were full of book learning and big theories. Flea silenced them with one word: 'Bullshit'. And went on to tell them with some annoyance and in fine detail how it was done in Africa.
'So, obviously, I thought she was a vet. I asked her if she had studied at Onderstepoort. No, she said, she worked with Douw Grobler for three years. Now, Douw used to be the head of Game Capture in Kruger, probably the best of the best. But even so, for her to assimilate so much in-depth knowledge ... She's a very smart girl. But I digress ...'
'Are you saying she isn't a veterinarian?'
'No, she isn't. But she could hold her own with those two guys. On everything. When it came to wild animals in transit, she knew much more. That's why I called her when the two rhinos became an option for Diederik.'
I almost missed it, still pondering Flea's false career. 'You're a vet,'
Swannie had said respectfully when we loaded the rhinos. Her answer had been a string of big medical words, anaemia and gastrointestinal diseases. A delicate way of avoiding the truth. Then I registered what Ehrlichmann had said.
'You called her? How did you contact her?'
'She left her card with just about everybody after the census. I called her cellphone.'
'Do you still have the card?'
'Of course. I'll find it for you. But first, let me tell you what I think happened. And then you can draw your own conclusions. In the first week or so, I was impressed by how she mingled with everybody, quite deliberately, and with such consummate skill and charm. After a while I realised that there was method in this socialising, because she started to ignore certain people, even snub them, and shift her considerable focus onto others.'
It wasn't difficult for him to grasp her purpose: the people she spent more and more time with were those who were useful to her. Someone who might use her services in future, or at least provide access to other, more important people. But her most peculiar choice was the final evening, the closing function at Kaswiswi camp number one.
'We had this huge barbecue, lots of booze, your typical VIP bush bash, because a number of government people had flown in by helicopter: the Minister of Environment and Tourism, his three directors, the Head of Parks, the regional chief of the Wildlife Fund ...'
Ehrlichmann cast a quick glance over his shoulder, leaned across the table, and dropped his voice as if sharing a secret. 'But the one guy Cornel spent the most time with that night, was Johnson Chitepo.'
He saw the name made no impression on us.
'You've never heard of Johnson Chitepo?'
'Nope,' said Lotter.
'He is Mugabe's crony-in-chief,' with a reluctant admiration. 'He is the key man in the Zimbabwean Central Intelligence Organisation, the head of the Joint Operations Command, and the man with whose blessing almost any crime in Zimbabwe can be committed with impunity. If you believe the rumours, he is also the guy who rigged the last elections, and the leading candidate to become the next president.'
Like his wildlife tales, he was building up to a climax.
'But it's not so much what Chitepo is doing now. The key to all of this lies in his history, and the history of the region. You see, back in 1998, President Laurent Kabila of the Congo needed an army. Urgently. His former allies, Rwanda and Uganda, had just turned against him, they had reached the outskirts of Kabila's stronghold in Kinshasa, and he was desperate for help. So, Kabila called his old pal Mugabe. And Mugabe sent Johnson Chitepo with a very clear directive: go and find out what's in it for us. As it turned out, Kabila was more than ready with an answer. He offered a mining concession at Mbuji-Mayi, in exchange for the loan of Mugabe's army. And you know what they mine at Mbuji-Mayi?'
We shook our heads.
'Diamonds,' Ehrlichmann whispered.
'Aha,' said Lotter.
A slow nod. 'Diamonds,' he repeated. He downed the last of his cognac. 'And that, I believe, is what our Cornel was smuggling out of here.'
He let it sink in before stretching out his hand for the bottle, picking it up and holding it out towards Lotter's glass.
'No thanks, I'm flying tomorrow.'
Ehrlichmann nodded and poured another for himself.
I wasn't entirely convinced by his story. 'The war in the Congo was ten years ago ...'
'Forget about the war. That's just where it started. Think now. Think noose around the neck of Zimbabwe. Think millions of American dollars' worth of diamonds extracted from Mbuji-Mayi over the years, and fewer and fewer buyers. Because of the increasing isolation of Zimbabwe. There have been sanctions, the EU has frozen all the assets of Zimbabwe's ministers abroad, and the Kimberley Process is making it very difficult for them to find a market for their dirty stones. And then, there's the weighty matter of international terrorism. Y
ou see, there is a connection between the Mbuji-Mayi concession and al-Qaeda.'
'You're kidding,' said Lotter.
Ehrlichmann shook his head. 'I'm not. Back in 1998, Mugabe and Chitepo had one big problem: they didn't have the technical know- how to extract the diamonds. But in Africa, carrion is always guaranteed to attract the scavengers. Enter Mr Sayyid Khalid bin Alawi Macki, a businessman and mining magnate from Oman, with all the technical expertise needed for the job. Within a week, they had created a joint venture between Osleg, the business wing of the Zimbabwean armed forces, the Zim government, and Macki. And our Mr Macki, apparently, is the one with ties to al-Qaeda. Through his many companies, he not only launders money for the terrorists, but also directly supplies, funds, arms, and equips them. So now you will understand how difficult it has become for Chitepo to get rid of the diamonds. Everybody has been watching, including the CIA. All the usual channels are blocked, all the border posts are being monitored. According to the bush telegraph, Chitepo is getting more and more desperate to sell the diamonds, and time is running out. For him, for Mugabe, for Zimbabwe. I mean, who knows where this new coalition government will lead? It's every man for himself now, and even they are watching each other like hawks ... Anyway, that night, during the Big Barbecue, Johnson Chitepo was spending a lot of time with Cornel. As a matter of fact, when I left just before midnight, they were sitting, just the two of them, heads together, very deep in discussion. And I think I know what they were talking about. I mean, she would have been perfect - a South African, white, no obvious ties to smuggling. And using the rhinos ... Well, that's very, very clever.'
I asked him about the rhinos.
He said it was more than a year ago that word had reached him that Diederik Brand, a benefactor to Zim farmers, was most eager to acquire a breeding pair. When he came across the two animals in June, barely twenty kilometres from where we now sat, he realised their chances of survival were slim. Poaching of Black Rhino was intense, organised, and executed with the full knowledge of the Zimbabwean police. That was why he sent word to Diederik via the channels: if Brand financed the operation, Ehrlichmann would do the rest to get the animals to the border. When a positive answer was returned, Cornel van Jaarsveld was the obvious choice, because of her knowledge of sedation of game in transit. He had dug up her visiting card and called her ...