By the time we come out of the scarp into the Mwaleshi's narrow valley below, the moon has risen, two days from full and halfway up the eastern sky. Now each of the water holes, rivers, and flooded dambos twinkles with moonlight as we pass; occasionally my heart jumps, but the twinkle is silver—not the flickering, sallow yellow of a poacher's fire.
We have just begun to fly along the foothills of the scarp, approaching one of the Mwaleshi's tributary streams when Kasokola leans out of the open doorway and shouts, "Poachers—fire! There!" He points to a large circle of flames near the river. I bank the plane and push its nose into a shallow dive that will end up over the camp.
Kasokola picks up the spotlight. I warn him not to use it for more than a couple of seconds, just long enough to see the meat racks and confirm that this is the poachers' camp. The light will make the plane an easy target. "Eh, Mukwai—yes, sir." I glance over to see him grinning. He wants Chikilinti as badly as I do. "And don't shine the light inside the plane," I yell in his ear. "It will blind me."
I fly past the camp and turn on the landing light. When I can see the crowns of the trees flashing just under the plane's wheels, I reset the altimeter to read our height above the ground around the poachers. I will use this reading as a minimum safety height to help keep us clear of the woodland while making passes over the camp. Banking steeply, I turn back toward the fires and ease off the throttle, cutting our speed to about 55 mph. As we come in over the camp I cross the controls, using heavy right rudder and left aileron. Foxtrot Zulu Sierra skids sideways through the air, turning around the encampment, the stall warning bawling like a sick goose. The rising heat from the fires below lifts and rocks the plane.
"Now, Kasokola!"
He thumbs the switch on the Black Max and the camp is instantly bathed in the 450,000-candlepower light. Steadying the plane, I lean over him and for a second take my eyes from my flying to look down.
Tents ... fires ... and meat racks—covered with huge slabs of meat, so large they can only be from elephants. And a pair of tusks is leaning against a tree near the fire, tusks the size of Survivor's.
A pencil-thin trace of white light flicks past my right wing, followed by a popping sound. Tracer bullets! "They're shooting at us! Fire into the trees and bushes; blast their tents if you can. Don't spare the ammunition." Kasokola puts down the spotlight and grabs the shotgun as I pull the plane up away from the trees and begin turning back again. "Okay, get ready!"
Even with her lights switched off, to the poachers on the ground Zulu Sierra must look like a huge bat flitting about the moonlit sky—a nice fat target. And after our two passes, they must be getting the hang of tracking us with their rifles. I circle to the side of camp away from the moon so we won't present quite such a strong silhouette. Then I drop to the minimum safety height that will keep us clear of the trees, hoping to pass over the camp so quickly they won't have time to get off a shot, at least an accurate one. The dim shadows of trees are skimming by just under the plane's wheels, and then the meat fires are below us. I throttle back, kick right rudder and corkscrew the plane above the poacher's camp. A tracer streaks past, and another, much closer.
"Fire!"
And Kasokola answers: pfsst-pfsst-pfsst-pfsst-pfsst! From its barrel the twelve-gauge issues a trail of red and orange sparks as each cherry bomb arcs into the night.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM! Great thunderflashes of light and sound rock the poachers' camp. Kasokola's face is strobe lit as he cackles with laughter, unable to believe that he has caused all this ruckus, BOOM! The last cherry bomb lands in the campfire. Sparks and fiery traces of burning wood rocket through the camp and into the trees like Roman candles going off. One of Chikilinti's tents starts to burn, set alight by the scattered embers of the campfire.
"Happy Fourth of July, bastards!" I shout. Then, "Reload!" I yell to Kasokola as I haul Zulu Sierra through a tight turn. This time we come in fifty feet higher, spreading our cherry bombs over a broader area, hoping to catch the scattering poachers. I jink and sideslip the plane, avoiding their tracers. Kasokola reloads four more times, shooting up the camp again and again until there is no more return fire.
Thinking the poachers may have split up earlier, I climb to a thousand feet above the ground and see another campfire, about two miles downstream. I push Zulu Sierra into a dive and Kasokola switches on the spotlight. A circle of men with guns is sitting around the fire, near a large empty meat rack. They have not yet killed.
I haul the plane through another tight turn. Back over the second camp, I can see the poachers still sitting close to their fire, so confident that they haven't bothered to take cover. Kasokola puts the first cherry bomb at their feet, KABOOM! At the explosion the poachers throw themselves to the ground, crawling into the bushes. On the next pass we shower them with more cherry bombs and move on down the valley, blasting other poachers in their camps on the Lufwashi, Luangwa, and Mulandashi rivers. We stay out long into the night, until clouds began covering the moon and we have to head home.
After sunrise the next morning, Kasokola and I fly to Chikilinti's campsite of the night before. All that remains are the charred and smoldering shreds of his tent and a pile of squabbling vultures.
22. Scouts on the Prowl
DELIA
You never feel it till it's over—the relief at having survived and the new sun rising calmly as ever before your eyes. It's morning.
— PAULA GUNN ALLEN
WE SEE NO POACHED ELEPHANTS in North Luangwa for three months. For four months. For five months. By February 1991 Long Ear's and Misty's group of elephants and other family units stroll onto the floodplains, feeding in the open on the blond grasses. Occasionally families come together, forming aggregations of up to two hundred sixty elephants.
One evening Long Ear's group ventures down to the river's edge before sunset. The calf and the youngster—now five years old—gallop through the Mwaleshi, sending sprays of water into the air. Their mothers bathe nearby; but then, caught in some new spirit, they too run in circles through the shallow river. Chasing one another, adults and young alike frolic and romp—something they have not done in a long time. A natural wildness slips back into the valley.
Still receiving coded messages from Musakanya, Mark flies night and day. He greets every poaching band that enters the park with his special cherries, even before they can set up their camps. Musakanya sends word that the poachers are having trouble hiring bearers, because they are afraid of the plane and its explosive bombs. The carriers start trickling into our small office in Mpika, asking us for work. We hire them with money we have raised in the States.* It is as simple as this: Mark chases them out of the park with the plane; I greet them on the top of the scarp with a job.
Bumping along the bush track one afternoon, I drive across the valley toward Marula-Puku from my river camp. The track takes me through the dusty plains that are spotted with buffalo and through the forest where kudu hide. Earlier Mark radioed from the airplane, asking me to come by camp to talk about something important. When I reach the Lubonga, I stop in the tall grass and walk to the river's edge, where the water tumbles over a small rock shelf and creates a natural whirlpool. I bathe in the sparkling current and change into a fresh blouse and jeans. Sitting on the rocks, I brush my hair in the sun. I drive the truck across the river and down the track into camp, where I park under the marula trees.
As always, Kasokola and Mwamba rush out from the workshop to shake my hand warmly, and Mumanga, the cook, and Chanda, his assistant, run from the kitchen to welcome me back. But Mark is flying a patrol and won't return until much later. Swallowing my disappointment, I plan a special dinner for us. Mumanga, who thinks Mark and I never eat enough, pitches in.
Most of the open kitchen area has been without a roof since Survivor tried to eat it. The little wood stove, whose legs collapsed under the roof, is now set on blocks under a small, round, thatched roof. In no time Mumanga has the fire going. Smoke belches from the tall chimney with its cock
ed tin hat.
"Mumanga, you make a cake, okay? I'll bake a tuna pie—Mark's favorite. Chanda, please set the table in the little din ing cottage. Mark and I haven't had a real dinner together in months."
As we dash around the kitchen, up to our elbows in pastry and batter, Chanda and Mumanga tell me about the wildlife they have seen near camp. The zebra without stripes grazes across the river every so often, and the small herd of buffalo come into camp every morning.
Late in the afternoon the plane zooms over us as Mark approaches the airstrip. Everything is ready: Mumanga is icing the cake, the pie is baking, the table in the dining cottage is laid with candles and pottery dishes.
His eyes bloodshot, his face drawn, Mark steps out of the truck at the workshop. He hugs me briefly, and before we have taken two steps he announces that he must go straight back to the airstrip. Musakanya has passed the word that poachers may be heading into the park from the north, to a hilly area where Mark does not fly often.
Standing in the n'saka, Mark wolfs down a peanut butter sandwich and chases it with thick black coffee. I don't mention the special dinner I have made, or suggest that he take a rest, because I know he won't listen. According to the doctors in Lusaka, his collapse was brought on by stress and fatigue, by parasites and a virus, and by too much caffeine. All the same, he has ignored the warnings to slow down.
Sitting on the low stone wall of the n'saka, Mark drinks more coffee as we talk. The cherry bombs have cleared the park of poachers more effectively than we could have imagined, but we know this cannot last. Sooner or later the poachers will realize that the firecrackers are harmless; sooner or later Mark will be shot down or arrested by a corrupt official.
We have to try again to get the game guards to do their jobs. Our last hope, we have decided, is to find a tough, committed Zambian to serve as their unit leader. The encouragement, motivation, and leadership that the Mano scouts so desperately need should not come from us, but from one of them. We need a Zambian as crazed about elephants as we are.
Only two men can help us: Luke Daka and Akim Mwenya. Together they are in charge of all the scouts, wardens, and administrators of National Parks. It was Daka who fell in love with Survivor when he met him at our camp. We will fly to Lusaka in a few days to meet with them again.
Mark, not noticing the pie or cake in the kitchen boma, quickly kisses me good-bye and drives back to the airstrip. So that I won't hurt Mumanga's feelings, I follow through with the evening meal, sitting at the table alone, eating a dinner meant for two. As the sun sets, I hear the plane take off in the distance and disappear among the hills of the scarp. I have never felt so lonely. After dinner I pack fresh supplies for my camp, give some cake and pie to Mumanga and Chanda, and ask them to keep the rest warm for Mark's return. Then I climb into my truck for the three-hour drive to the Luangwa. The half-moon will be my companion.
Acrid smells and shrill city noises filter through the open windows of Electra House, office of the Ministry of Tourism in Lusaka. Mark and I sit at a conference table with nine men from the Zambian government: Luke Daka, permanent secretary of the ministry, the director and the deputy director of National Parks and Wildlife Services, several other high-level officials from that department, and a few representatives of the Anticorruption Commission whom we have invited. We have explained the poaching problems to all of these men many times during meetings in Lusaka. But never have we met all together.
"Mr. Daka," Mark begins, "you will remember Survivor, the elephant who came to our camp when you were there. I'm afraid I have to tell you that poachers came to Marula-Puku and shot into his group, killing at least one elephant. We believe it was Survivor."
Daka frowns. "No! That's terrible!"
"It gets worse. I found the poachers' camp from the air," Mark went on, "but the game guards refused to go after them."
"This is outrageous! How can game guards refuse to take action in such an emergency?" Several men squirm in their seats.
"Sir, this is just the beginning." Mark talks for twenty minutes, telling about the radio and gun licenses not being granted, about scouts seldom patrolling, about corruption in Mpika, about National Parks officers—including the warden—who deal in ivory, skins, and meat. He describes how he has been shot at again and again while aiding the scouts, and how an official has accused him of buying black-market military weapons.
"But," Daka stammers, "this is ludicrous. Who has made these charges against you? And why two years to get radio licenses—they should be ready in two or three days." He glares at the men around him.
"We believe," Mark continues, "that people with poaching interests in North Luangwa are trying to block everything we do. They want to keep us from getting firearms and radios so the scouts can't protect the park."
Mark pauses to let the message sink in. "Sir, North Luangwa is one of the most beautiful parks in Africa—one that could, along with South Luangwa, bring millions of dollars into Zambia through tourism. But I can only say that we cannot go on like this. We have to know that this government is going to support us, or at least not undermine us."
Daka stares at the table, twisting the pen in his hand. "Mark, Delia," he finally says, "after being at your camp, I can see that your project is the only hope for this park. We WILL support you in every way."
Mark and I have heard this before; we are skeptical. But then Akim Mwenya continues, leveling his eyes at his junior officers from National Parks, "Tomorrow I want someone from the department to fly to Ndola to get these radio licenses. I also want the licenses to bring these guns into the country right away, so that the scouts can be armed properly. And new personnel should be sent to the Mano Unit."
The director offers to immediately send twenty scouts with special military training to Mano and build a new camp for them. North Luangwa will be given top priority.
"Sir, I would like to make one more request," Mark interjects. "The unit desperately needs a dynamic new leader. Please send us the best man you have."
We thank them all, especially Mr. Daka, but after four years of false hopes and disappointments we leave feeling more anxious than optimistic.
"Wonder how many hours they'll give us to pack up and get out of their country," Mark jokes as we step out onto the street. Walking through the jostling crowd, I do not laugh.
Up before dawn, I count the hippos from my camp before driving up the scarp mountains to meet Mark near Mano. Since our meeting in Lusaka a few weeks ago, three senior government officials have been suspended, pending investigation of charges that they were smuggling ivory to Swaziland. Our radio licenses have been approved and fresh scouts assigned to North Luangwa. A new unit leader has arrived in Mano, and Mark and I are to meet him today.
Driving along different tracks, Mark and I pull up at the Mwaleshi River near Mano at about the same time. We climb out of our trucks to inspect the new pole bridge we had built with local labor, then drive along the new Mano-to-Mukungule road to the recently completed airstrip. To our astonishment, a squadron of game guards dressed in full uniform marches double time along the strip toward us. They halt, turn smartly in place, honor us with a crisp military salute, then march off again. At the head of their column is a lanky, young Zambian wearing a proud smile. Incredulous, Mark and I look at each other. Can this be the Mano scouts drilling?
In Mark's truck we drive to the main camp. The children swarm around us as we step down from the Cruiser, then ask us to wait in the crumbling n'saka while they fetch the new unit leader. Ten of them race off to get him, while the other children ask for stories from the Luangwa Lion puppet. Mano still looks more like a refugee camp than an official game scout unit headquarters. The cracked walls of the old huts have simply been plastered with new mud that will soon crack in the sun.
Ten minutes later, the children dash back across the field ahead of the young man and the column of scouts. He orders his drill team to about-face, they march back down the field, and he dis misses them. Sweating heavily from
the march, but crisp in his new green uniform, he walks briskly toward us. I stare at him. This is it, as far as I am concerned. If this man cannot bring Mano Unit under control, the project will be forced to recruit its own scouts. If that doesn't work, we will find another wilderness to save.
His handshake is firm and he looks me straight in the eye, his gaze steady and confident as he introduces himself. "I'm Kotela Mukendwa. I've heard all about you. We have much to discuss. Please sit down."
As Mark and I brief Kotela on the poaching in North Luangwa and our problems with the scouts, he nods his head knowingly. He intends to turn these undisciplined guards into a crack military-style unit, he says. We promise whatever he needs within reason to get started; if he does the job, we will consider requests beyond reason.
Talking so fast we can hardly understand him, Kotela presents a neatly prepared list of his needs: use of a truck to capture known poachers in the villages, fuel, more guns, ammo, and food for patrol. He will drill the men every day, instruct them in military tactics, order them to be dressed and ready for patrol at all times. He has sketched in detail his plans for an office, jail, armory, and storage complex for Mano. Almost dazed by his competence and determination, we agree to get him virtually everything on his list.
Mark stands, offering Kotela his hand. "Let's do it!" And he smiles his first real smile in a long while.
Mark and I set up a little camp near the waterfall, across the Mwaleshi River from the scout camp, so that we can help Kotela as much as possible. Using our trucks and funds for fuel and food, he provisions Mano with supplies and lectures the men on patrol tactics. He hires informants and prepares the scouts to go on village sweeps, in which they will raid poachers' homes in the middle of the night and arrest them. Meanwhile, we install new solar-powered radios at the various scout camps, organize farmers to grow food for the scouts, and in general try to improve their living conditions. Using money we have raised in the United States, we purchase two new tractors and trailers to supply the camps, and a grader to make better roads and airstrips for the budding tourist industry.
The Eye of the Elephant Page 26