The ramshackle military buildings at the ranger station to the left of the river looked a lot better from the air than they did on the ground. It had only been two nights and Susuwe was already wearing on me. I needed to be patient, but the horror of my introduction and the unsettling treatment by the local staff was a hard welcome. Gidean was the only warmth the place had to offer.
As I headed farther north, I noticed a haze in the air and a few flecks of ash. Even though the wet season hadn’t technically ended, patches of fire weren’t unusual; the sporadic rains left spotty dry areas. Fire made sense, considering how dry parts of Botswana had been as I drove through.
The brown contrasted against the green vegetation where the rain had fallen and reminded me of a comment one of the policemen had made as I passed through the border patrol to the East Caprivi that morning. When I asked how his crop was doing this year, he shook his head and said that his neighbor had been witching him. That was the only way he could explain the fact that his neighbor’s field got plenty of rain and was doing well, while his was dry as an old elephant bone.
After a short while, I could see the cutline of Angola to the north and banked left to keep within the Namibian border. I hadn’t seen elephants in some time. In the distance, a major forest fire raged on the Angolan side and had crossed into Namibia. Maybe the elephants had moved south to avoid the fire.
The only trees standing in this scorched landscape were the giant leadwoods—silvery gray trunks topped with dry orange leaves. Not all of the fire was new; there were a few areas with verdant patches of green grass that had sprouted up among the char. A small elephant family ran through the grass kicking up soot with their feet. Their skin was charred gray with papery wrinkles, their bleach-white ivory offsetting their ashen coats.
The smoke moving out from the origin of the fire was too far north for me to see how it might have started. I pulled up on the yoke to gain elevation and banked back to the right to get a closer look. The cockpit was getting hotter.
A sudden explosion below me rocked the plane with a wall of turbulence. A dead tree had spontaneously combusted from the heat of the fire. The flames transformed into voracious orange tongues, hungrily consuming the charred wood. I clutched the yoke, steering away from a series of white ash dust devils filled with orange leaves as they churned across the black smoldering earth.
I quickly gained elevation as a few more trees exploded. With the wind blowing south, smoke was billowing right toward me, making it impossible to see to the north. Not having permission to fly over the international border meant I had to be careful to stay south of the cutline.
I banked farther right and leveled off, pushing the throttle in to speed up, keeping south as something red caught my eye just over the border. The wind suddenly changed directions, expanding my view and allowing me to see a scattering of what looked like huge mounds of flesh bleeding out into the sand. They were butchered elephant carcasses—fifteen or more.
Large slabs of raw meat smoking on top of wooden racks. Judging from the range of sizes of the carcasses, it had to have been a family group.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The audacity of it all—poaching a whole group in broad daylight. And cooking the meat out in the open? How could they get away with this?
I aligned myself perpendicular to the cutline and pulled way back on the throttle, making the nose of the airplane very heavy as I tried to get a final look. Craning my neck to the right, I saw a few people clutching tusks and running toward a Cessna 182 sitting on a freshly slashed airstrip. Just at the end of my line of vision I thought I saw a symbol on the airplane—a red shape, like the Red Cross symbol.
As much as I wanted to circle around to get a better look, it would have given me away. I had to keep on my current course—to fly on, as if I hadn’t seen anything unusual.
I couldn’t hold back the fury as I turned away from the billowing smoke so as not to be seen. Fighting to stay level, I tried to calm down as the world closed in on me.
The ground wasn’t moving fast enough beneath me. Imagining the cries from elephants being gunned down, I screamed at the top of my lungs as I pushed the yoke in. “Goddammit!” All I could think about was landing and getting myself to Hippo Lodge to call Craig on the radio. I headed southwest, then south over Malombe Pan and east, back to Mpacha airstrip.
Even though the radio wouldn’t be a secure line, I couldn’t wait any longer to reach Craig. I had to report this as soon as possible, and there was no one else I could tell. Craig’s voice echoed through my head: “Do not speak to anyone until we get a handle on the players in the region.” He was concerned about how much more ivory might be passing through the area than previously thought. But barbecuing the meat out in the open—and with a Red Cross plane? I didn’t think he had any idea that the players would be that brazen. No one was patrolling the Angolan side of the border, and the poachers knew it.
I arched my back and pressed at the base of my spine, willing the rest of the flight away. As I neared the airstrip and prepared to land, I wondered who I could talk to about Red Cross activities in the region. There had to be logbooks of their missions, and of whose plane was where at any one time. It seemed extremely unlikely that someone interested in providing medical aid would have any connection to slaughtering elephants. Whoever owned that airplane may or may not be aware of what their pilot was up to. Either that or the plane had been stolen.
Chapter 7
The Beetle bounced down the eastern floodplain road, heading to Hippo Lodge. Not having been to the lodge, I wasn’t sure I could find it after dark, so I was racing the sun.
I turned in at a large sign with an arrow pointing to a long, low thatched building overlooking the river. After parking in the gravel lot, I stepped into the dark breezy receiving area. A horizontal shaft of sunlight beamed through the open far wall that faced the river.
“Hello?” I called into the empty room.
A tall dark man stepped out of a corner wearing a khaki collared shirt with “Hippo Lodge” embroidered on the left breast. “Good afternoon.” He bowed slightly. “Here for early dinner?”
Startled at his sudden appearance, I hesitated before responding. “Oh, hello. No, thank you. Just a drink, thanks.”
“Ah, sundowners.” The man led me outside and sat me down at a table under a thatched gazebo that hovered over the brown swirling water. I had a splendid unobstructed view up and down the vast river. The sun was low, lighting the river in a fiery orange.
I ordered a Lemon Twist and then stared at the vortex of the great swollen Zambezi. The chocolate river sucked at the legs of the gazebo as it passed, seemingly bent on swallowing the large tree islands in the middle of the river. A glossy ibis flew by in the breathless air, giving its signature hau di dau to announce another lazy late afternoon along the mighty Zambezi. It was all business as usual around here, as if the elephant carnage that I had just witnessed across the border had happened worlds away.
The waiter returned and put the soda down next to a sticky glass. I thanked him and refused the glass. I snapped the top of the chilled can and took a sip of the sugary, bitter bubbly drink. The sweetness of a large swallow erased my burgeoning headache. My stomach was only now starting to feel more settled after the flight.
I gulped down the rest of the drink and called to the waiter. “Is Mr. Alvares here?”
Alvares emerged from behind a well-manicured reed-and-thatch bar off to the side. He squinted into the setting sun. “Ah, thought I recognized you. Glad you popped around.”
I stood up. “Catherine Sohon.” I tried to seem casual. “You mentioned that I might stop by today, and it was on my way, so I thought I’d check it out.”
“Came by for the rump, I suspect?”
“Maybe next time.” I looked around. “Lovely place you have, though.” I blew out a long steady breath, trying to control the waver that I felt mounting in my voice. “Bet you never get tired of the view.”
“T
hank you. I do appreciate it. Took over running the place about a year ago, and if it were up to me, I’d never leave.”
“I see the attraction.”
“Have to keep reminding myself that someone else owns the place even though he’s hardly here. Only comes around some weekends. Hard to keep track, particularly now that he does all his own flying. I used to be his pilot, you see.”
“Interesting.”
In a small town, it wouldn’t take long for him to find out that I was a pilot as well, but I didn’t know how much small talk was enough to be polite before asking to use the radio. Trying not to seem too abrupt, I asked, “Listen, my cellphone broke on the drive up from South Africa. I really need to make a call to South Africa. Is there any chance I could borrow your radio?”
Alvares looked uncertain. “We could try. This is coming into the best time of day for reception. I haven’t had much luck reaching the exchange in Walvis Bay this week, though.”
“Would you mind if I tried?”
“By all means.” Alvares led me behind the bar and into a dark office and switched the light on. He opened up a door at the back of the office, revealing a private radio room. “The boss likes privacy when he makes his calls.”
Although excited to have privacy, even if I closed the door, I’d have to be careful of who might be on the radio. A smartphone with a satellite phone backup was going to be essential.
I was able to get through to the exchange operator in Walvis Bay and gave her Craig’s phone number in Johannesburg. As I waited for the connection, I tried to collect myself. I had to sound calm.
I heard Craig’s voice as the phone picked up. My stomach tightened. “Hello, Craig.”
“Catherine, how are you? Where are you?”
“I’m at a fishing camp,” I said curtly. “Place called Hippo Lodge.”
“Ah, yes, excellent place. Understand they have a big tiger fish competition every year.” It sounded like he was about to launch into a story but hesitated, probably realizing that he sounded a little too chipper for my tone. “Right. Good. But what happened to your cellphone?”
“Broken.”
“A fine welcome.”
“Yes, well, I hope to get another on Monday. A satellite backup would be good. There’s a lot of areas with no cell coverage in the region.”
“I’m one step ahead of you there.”
“Glad to hear it.” I thought about the ivory chip sitting next to my bed. “I have some data for you.”
“I look forward to seeing it.”
I stalled. “And my clearance?”
“Ah, yes, sorry about that. Turned out to be some delays, but it should be there now. I had my secretary fax it up.”
“Good. So it will go to Baggs directly?”
“Yes, to his office. When the fax is back online.”
“And you’ve spoken with him about me?”
“Yes, we had a chat yesterday. I understand you had just been in his office in the morning.”
“And?”
“Look, I’ll be honest, he’s an ornery bugger. But he’s the best we’ve got up there. He’ll soften up. We need him on this. And he’s committed.”
“It was hard to tell.”
“I did warn you that this would be no picnic. You must be careful what you say.”
“I just didn’t expect that kind of introduction.”
“I’ll chat with him again and get things sorted now that he’ll have your clearance.”
“Sounds good.”
Craig lowered his voice. “There’s been some new leads on the Dollar Store. We’re hopeful that something will turn up from your activities over the next week.”
“That’s actually why I’m calling you now.”
“Is it?”
“I need to learn more about Red Cross activities in the region. And witchcraft.”
“That’s a tall order.”
“Can you arrange clearance for the Angolan border?”
“That will take some time. You are clear for Zambia, though.”
“How soon for Angola?”
“Difficult to say with the postwar fallout. Why, any activity?”
“Yes. A lot of activity.”
“Photos?”
“Not yet.”
“GPS fix?”
“In the vicinity.”
“Nice.”
“Listen, I’m thinking about doing some volunteer work.”
“Think you’ll have time for volunteer work? Maybe wait and see how things look in a few weeks.”
It was frustrating to have to talk on the open airways like this, so we had to somewhat converse in code. “I think it will be quite beneficial. Can you check on registered Red Cross missions based out of Katima?”
“Okay, I’ll put the guys on it.”
I was hoping that Craig was reading between my sentences—that he really didn’t think I actually wanted to volunteer for the Red Cross. “Great.”
“Catherine, now that I have you on the line, I got you a postbox at the Kongola post office just across the river from Susuwe. Know it?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Box number 248. I’ll be sending things there. In the meantime, I’ve sent a courier up with some essentials.”
“Can the same courier deliver you some samples?”
“Will send another for that. And I’m going to make several appointments for you. Got one with Nigel Lofty on Monday. He’s a Brit who heads the Community Care program in the region.”
The reception suddenly got worse and I was focused on the mention of a phone. “When do you think the sat phone will arrive?”
“Cheers, Catherine, go well.” I wondered if he didn’t hear me, but then realized that he sounded suddenly rushed, as if someone had entered his office.
“Okay, good-bye then.”
As I headed out of the bar, Alvares put down the glass he was cleaning. “Did you come right with the comms?”
“Yes, I did. Thank you so much.”
“Great. Must be pretty quiet over there at Susuwe. Don’t be a stranger.” Alvares smiled.
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Go well, Catherine.”
I drove back to the station in the dark, trying to avoid all the cattle that were sitting on the road outside each of the main village areas. While I weaved through them, the horns of the large bulls were so big that, even sitting down, they were practically as tall as my car.
I couldn’t help wanting to drive up to the Angolan border the next day, to see if evidence of the poaching camp could be seen from the cutline. But the poachers would most likely be heavily armed, not something I was prepared for on my own. Maybe I could convince the rangers to take a drive with me.
Chapter 8
I sat on my porch and watched elephants pour out of the forest and onto the floodplain in the soft pink light of the late afternoon. I tried to enjoy the feeling of a lazy Sunday from the vantage of my barracks porch, despite what was happening to elephants just seven miles up the road over the border.
Young males let out a few deafening screams as they often did in the excitement of an impending reunion. I picked up my binoculars and started counting. After counting thirty elephants, I checked the time and went inside to get my field notebook from the bedroom. This was the perfect time to try out the night-vision goggles and Nikon digital camera that Craig had somehow arranged to have sitting on the porch steps for me when I returned from our radio conversation the night before, along with an iridium satellite phone, various connectors, and a small printer, the size of a 3-hole punch. He must have gotten one of the rangers to drop it off.
I put on long pants and socks to thwart the mosquitoes and then buckled on my holster, grabbed my backpack and the keys from the counter, and headed back outside. I picked up my binoculars again to shove them into the backpack and got into the car.
Not wanting to scare the elephants, I drove slowly downwind of them. The Beetle wallowed through the tall red
and orange grass of the floodplain until I reached the water. I settled down at a backwater, one pool down from the action with the elephants still in view.
A large group of hippos objected to my presence on the bank by waving their open mouths at me from the middle of the pool, exposing their enormous canines in threat. A few belted out sharp bellows and loud bursts of air through their nostrils. After deciding that I didn’t pose any immediate danger, they quieted down with only a puff of air here and an ear twitch there and a territorial hum, hum, hum, hum, hum, snort. All was fairly quiet except for the whine of mosquitoes and the rumbling of elephants.
I grabbed my backpack and climbed up on my roof rack. I watched the elephants in the radiant light, taking pictures, counting them, and, out of habit, taking notes on their behavior. I spotted an older female that was pushing young males away from her drinking spot at a deep elbow in the river.
I drew the ear notches, tusk shape, and tail-hair pattern of the largest one that appeared to be the matriarch, and estimated ages and sexes of the others, eyeballing back heights relative to hers. I noted other distinctive characteristic features within the group until another much larger group showed up at sunset, making it impossible to keep track.
The new group burst onto the scene with jubilant fanfare silhouetted against a rapidly sinking red sun. I stopped taking pictures and picked up my low-light binoculars to watch as they proceeded to engage in an elaborate ceremony—the older females roaring, rumbling, urinating, and defecating, while standing in a rigid line. They held their heads high with their trunks on the ground and ears flapping in this mysterious primal ritual. After a few minutes, they relaxed their shoulders and proceeded to exchange tactile greetings by placing their trunks in one another’s mouths, akin to a handshake.
The dust rose from the commotion of even more arrivals, and more roaring and bellowing, the calls seeming to attract more and more extended families to join in the party. The smell of elephant permeated the air—a combination of tanned leather, dung, and something musty sweet.
Ivory Ghosts Page 5