I continued to walk Finnius through each line of the form and asked if he used a GPS when he went out on patrol.
He shook his head.
Nigel pulled a map out of a drawer in the table and placed it in front of me. “They use this grid system.” He pointed at the squares. “They estimate which block they are in and write it down.”
“Oh, okay, that’s good.” I looked at the map. “I assume this grid is geo-referenced in some way so that GPS coordinates could be added later?”
Nigel nodded. “We have one GPS, but the whole region needs access to it, which is why the game guards don’t take it out on patrol.”
“So, you could add in the coordinates when you get the reports each month?”
Nigel scratched his scalp under his cap. “If that would be helpful.”
I looked around. “Is there a computer in the office?”
Nigel shook his head. “I requested one a year ago so that I could enter forms electronically, but I haven’t received one yet.”
“WIA might be able to help with that.”
“That would be great.”
I put my finger next to another line on the form. “Here’s where you write details about the number and sex of elephants, possible cause of death, approximate age of the carcass, and whether ivory had been removed or is still intact.” I moved down to the bottom of the form. “This section refers to any biological samples that might have been taken for testing, and where the samples were sent.”
I looked up at Nigel. “It’s all pretty basic stuff—stuff you guys probably already collect. It just helps to have a generalized form so that data can be maintained on a continent-wide basis.”
Finnius held the form and nodded. “We can do this.”
Nigel stood up. “Great! Saving elephants one form at a time. Now, let’s go pay the induna a visit.”
We got into Nigel’s truck and drove in silence for a good long while, all lost in our own thoughts. I appreciated the quiet, which gave me time to psychologically ramp up for my flight that evening, not having any idea of what to expect or what potential dangers lay ahead.
When we got to the kraal, the same crooked old man was sitting on a bent metal bench waiting to receive us. He got up and slowly walked over to us as we got out of the Land Rover.
Suddenly there was a commotion in the dense bush on the other side of the kraal. A distraught young boy burst out of the foliage. “Leto! Leto!” The boy cried out the Lozi word for elephant, and then stopped in his tracks at the sight of us. He stared at me. Then he looked to the old man.
The old man nodded and opened the door to the kraal. The boy disappeared behind him.
Two wailing women then burst from the acacia thicket wearing faded native wrap skirts, each holding a watermelon on top of her head. They, too, stopped short upon seeing us. They brought their watermelons down and held them to their chests, seemingly half embarrassed and half angry at our intrusion on their privacy.
The old man spoke curtly and motioned them to enter the kraal. As they disappeared, the wailing began again.
Nigel leaned over to me and whispered, “The induna’s wife. And his wife’s sister.”
I nodded as we stood listening to the loud and rapid-fire complaints.
Finnius clucked his tongue and whispered an interpretation. “Elephants ate everything. Banged drums, but the elephants chased them. When the farmer ran out of shots, elephants chased again.”
There was silence beyond the door again. Then the door creaked open. The little boy spoke to the old man, who, in turn, spoke to Finnius and Finnius to Nigel. “The induna will speak to you now.”
As we walked into an open courtyard, the two women carried a tiny shriveled man from his dark sleeping hut bundled in blankets. They propped him against the outside wall of the hut on a reed mat. He was fighting a malarial fever of sweats and shivers. The boy placed a long wooden bench at the other side of the reed mat as the women sunk into the shadows.
After a long silence, the induna collected himself, eyes still adjusting to the bright daylight. He looked up at Finnius and pointed to the bench for us to sit.
Nigel knelt down and performed the local hand-over-hand clapping greeting before taking a seat, as the induna looked away shyly, one hand over the side of his face. Finnius and I followed suit in clapping.
“Musuhili, Induna Munali,” Nigel spoke loudly, reaching to shake the induna’s hand in between his hand-over-hand clapping.
The induna shook hands weakly, clapped, and rebundled himself.
“I understand you have malaria.”
The induna nodded.
“Do you have enough chloroquine?”
Finnius interpreted and the induna spoke, and then Finnius relayed the induna’s words to Nigel. “Don’t you have any better medicines?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“There is too much itching with chloroquine.”
“Yes, it is a problem.” Nigel cleared his throat. “Induna, I came to introduce Catherine Sohon, our elephant census pilot. But I can see that you are still not well. Perhaps we should come back another day?”
The induna nodded for them to proceed.
“Right. Catherine has also offered to work with the game guards to help them fill in the required forms on elephant mortalities when they go out on patrol.”
Finnius whispered into the induna’s ear, and the induna listened earnestly. Then he spoke to Finnius for a long time, gesticulating weakly.
Finnius finally turned and spoke to Nigel again. “She needs to keep those elephants on the other side of the river.”
I looked to Nigel to see how to respond.
Outside, a group of wailing women approached, and one burst into the induna’s courtyard, crying hysterically. “Leto!” she screamed and fell into the induna’s wife’s lap. “Lubinda,” she whimpered. “Moffit is dead.”
The women tried to soothe their friend.
The distraught woman took a deep breath and glared at Nigel. “That elephant killed my husband!”
The induna scowled and spoke tersely to Finnius, and Finnius interpreted. “The induna would like you to go out to the field right now to see what the elephants have done. He is very upset. This is the second time an elephant has killed a farmer this season, and nothing has been done. He wants you to see for yourself and report this incident to the minister.”
I looked at Nigel and we both nodded.
“Of course.” Nigel bowed his head. “We want to help you solve this terrible problem.” He looked at the widow. “I am so sorry for your loss.”
Nigel stood up clapping his good-bye, and I followed suit as we left the somber courtyard. The induna’s young son followed us out and jumped into the back of the truck. He guided Nigel down a narrow track that led to a series of patchy cornfields far in the distance.
“How often does this happen?” I asked Nigel.
“At least once a year.”
“Really?”
He lit his pipe. “Same outside Kruger, I expect?”
“Not so much. The fences along the South African border are pretty effective at keeping elephants in. Lots of money for management. A lot of dedicated folks.”
“Sounds refreshing.”
“Maybe I could have found a way to stay if I was in a different mental space.”
“That’s the way I feel about this place.”
“Let’s hope that’s not contagious.”
“Oh, it is.” He looked at me ominously as he took a big puff on his pipe and exhaled. “It bloody well is.”
We drove through a Terminalia woodland that opened out onto the floodplain with Susuwe just across the river. There were cornfields planted all up and down the Kwando River just across from the reserve. I couldn’t help but wonder how people thought that they wouldn’t be attracting elephants with fields this close to the river and no buffer zone to separate their food from a hungry elephant.
We got out of the truck and stood in a sparse dry cornfield with very few
stalks standing. A crowd of women and children looked on while the trampled body of a man was being wrapped in a cloth. We watched the body being carried away by two of the other farmers.
I kept my head down reverently as the body passed by, finding it impossible to imagine the horror of the poor farmer’s last moments. An elephant following through with its charge was not something I wanted to envision.
This was not the introduction to the community that I had hoped for. I felt that I was intruding on something that I had no business being a part of and wished that I could leave. But if I left, it would have seemed as if I didn’t care. I had to stay to pay my respects and remind myself of the deadly dilemma that these farmers faced on a nightly basis.
Some of the women walked back and forth, weeping and wailing in anguish. Others had formed a circle underneath a small thatched roof and wavered between humming and moaning as smoke wisped away from last night’s fires around the crop, lit to keep elephants away.
Finnius shook his head. “They were in the middle of harvest when the elephants came last night.” He pointed to a partially eaten pile of corn on the ground. “The farmers chased them, but they came back very early this morning. Moffit ran at them and shot his shotgun in the air. One charged but didn’t stop. Moffit was crushed.”
I shook my head just as a small young woman approached me in a bright orange and yellow wrapped skirt, similar to the one I had just bought at the local market. Her hair was straightened and curved around her moon-shaped face. “You will not find anything here but the elephants’ dinner.” She folded her arms aggressively. “And their kill.”
Finnius introduced the woman to Nigel and me as the induna’s daughter, Nandi.
“This is a terrible tragedy. I’m so sorry for your loss, Nandi. My name is Catherine.” I held out my hand to her and she nodded suspiciously, not offering her hand in return. Instead she clapped one hand on top of the other and crouched slightly, so I returned the gesture.
“Mutozi,” I said, crouching and clapping, having learned the word for “Good afternoon” from Gidean.
Nandi pointed across the river. “If you kept those elephants on the other side of the river, this wouldn’t happen.” She was trying to be angry, but I could tell she was curious about this white woman standing in her cornfield and couldn’t be as mad as she wanted to be.
There had to be things that the farmers could do to minimize the elephants’ access to their food. “What about harvesting earlier?”
“Can’t do it. The grain will mold.”
“What about drying in storehouses?”
“Storehouse is not safe.” Nandi put her hands on her hips. “They will still come.”
“Would it be easier to protect a storehouse than an entire field?”
“Clearly, you do not know the elephant.” She shook her finger at me. “You cannot keep an elephant out of your house if they want to come in. They don’t need a key.” She laughed as she pretended her arm was a trunk and pushed the air in front of her. “They will just push down the door and eat what they like.”
“Where did you learn English?” Despite her attempt at hostility, I understood where she was coming from and was really starting to like this woman.
“In school.” Nandi softened, seemingly embarrassed that she was suddenly under some kind of scrutiny. “But I only finished standard two.”
“Well, your English is very good.”
Nandi smiled. “Thank you.”
“I wish there was something I could do to help you.”
Nandi let out a breath of resignation. “These elephants are too clever. There is nothing we can do but sit and wait for them to steal our food.”
“I’d like to understand the problem better. Maybe I can try and help. Would it be okay if I came and talked to you and the induna about it? Perhaps at a better time?”
Nandi nodded shyly. “Yes. All right. If my father agrees, I can do this.”
“Thanks, Nandi, I look forward to that.” I was hopeful that we might find some way to help by discussing the problem in detail.
We said our good-byes and got back into the truck. We drove down the chalky calcrete road, heading back toward Bwabwata National Park and the ranger station. Even though I was excited about the promise of a new friendship, as we left the scene, I was distracted with thoughts of my daunting flight ahead and was starting to have doubts about my plan to get to the Sioma Falls airstrip before the doctor and the witch doctor were to meet.
Nigel broke the silence. “I’ve never been to the United States and always wondered what Yellowstone was like. Hard to imagine there’s still big game left in America.”
“It’s gorgeous in the late fall and winter. When all the tourists are gone. In the summer, you wouldn’t believe how many ridiculously long telephoto-lens pileups you can get in front of a moose with a big rack.”
“You must have experienced fifteen-car pileups at lion kills in Kruger.”
“I guess it’s pretty similar. But highways bisect the Yellowstone. I wasn’t prepared for the kind of traffic that comes through when I first got there. Trucks, tour buses, cars…all driving so fast.”
“Tell me about it. They just recently paved the road through Bwabwata. Those big transport trucks are making crepes out of the elephants. It’s a bloody disaster.”
“Oh, no. Can anything be done to prevent that?” My voice wavered. I hoped it would come across as a reflection of the horror of this thought. But what was actually happening was a slow paralysis taking hold of my psyche. Was I really going to be able to pull off what I had planned for the night? I hadn’t flown by instruments in a long time. And what if I didn’t get the timing right and they saw me or even heard me landing? Sioma Falls airstrip was hardly a venue I could pretend that I was going to on my own. I tried to coach myself through my fears, telling myself that if I could get pictures of this event, it could greatly accelerate the investigation.
Nigel shrugged. “They put up a few ‘Elephant crossing’ signs and said they had addressed the problem.” Nigel pulled up next to the game-guard office and stopped. “I’ll see you in town at some point after the weekend?”
“Sounds good. Thanks, Nigel.” I waved good-bye, got into my car, and headed straight for Mpacha airstrip.
Now that I was alone without distraction, I was feeling better. The day had run later than expected, but I still had plenty of time. I’d get to the strip at five thirty and needed to take off by six thirty.
Chapter 18
There was an almost half-moon in the sky and I was on an adrenaline high. Sitting in the pilot’s seat, I kept reviewing everything that needed to happen before I landed at the old Sioma Falls airstrip an hour before Geldenhuis was scheduled to land at eight o’clock. I had to get there first, and with time to spare.
It was now six thirty and dark enough that I needed to fly using instruments—something I always found unnerving. I was lucky to have had a good flight instructor, though, and I’d never forget his demonstration of how important it was to trust instruments at night. He had me close my eyes while he maneuvered the plane and then asked me to describe our position. Each time I opened my eyes, it was hard to believe. Not being able to detect that the plane was banking or losing altitude, I got it wrong at least five times.
After that I never trusted my instincts at night. That little ball in the center of my level was my best friend, as was the altimeter. My only consolation was the smooth air—there was far less turbulence at night.
I persuaded Mpacha ground control to alert Zambian air traffic control of my squawk code, so I wouldn’t have to worry about announcing myself as I flew over the border and into Zambian airspace, potentially blowing my cover if our radio conversation was overheard. I hoped to hide the plane in the hangar, take photos of the transaction, and leave after the deal was done. I could see every step vividly. I was going to get solid evidence on the doctor—evidence that it sounded like Baggs really needed.
Once I was set to g
o, I strapped myself in, checked the fuel gauge, and reviewed the instrument panel. I flipped the starter switch, and the engine clapped to life. I plugged my coordinates into the GPS and studied the electronic map screen while several men ran down the strip to light fires. I told them that the fires weren’t necessary, as I’d be using night vision to take off, but they hadn’t quite understood what I meant.
I could see that the flight would take about a half an hour. Not too bad. I looked through the windshield at the line of tiny bush fires struggling to stay lit down the badly cracked and pocked airstrip. I usually preferred a clean bush strip to a potholed tarmac. But not at night. The shadows on the uneven ground weren’t easy to see, even with night vision.
A man waved a torch at the end of the strip, and I pushed on the throttle, aligned the rudders, and pulled up on the yoke when I got enough speed. I was up and out of there.
When I reached cruising altitude, I took off my night vision so as not to let my eyes trick me. I couldn’t see a thing but confusing shadows, but I tried not to let it bother me. I focused on the altimeter and my level, making sure I kept it on the horizon. I kept reviewing the plan, imagining landing, hiding the plane, getting into position, getting the camera ready, taking the photos, and getting out.
While repeating each step, I tried to silence the doubts niggling at the back of my mind. This was not the sort of thing I ever thought I’d be doing. And yet it now seemed like the only thing that made any sense. Seeing the poacher’s camp over the border of Angola had made me realize just how openly poaching was happening. There had to be a way to increase at least the perception that routine patrols were taking place.
I tried to sweep my mind of what-ifs to focus on the present—on what was about to happen and how I needed to stay on target. But I couldn’t help thinking about worst-case scenarios, getting caught, getting kidnapped by the witch doctor, or, worse, getting shot in the middle of nowhere in the African darkness. I texted Craig to make sure that he knew where I was, in case he didn’t hear from me by the end of the night.
I stretched my back and tried to relax my stomach, which I had attempted to calm with some peanut butter and crackers on the drive over. Soon enough, it was time to descend, and I put my night-vision goggles on so I could see the strip. There was a long, straight clearing ahead of me, and I banked until I could see the hangar at the end of the abandoned airstrip.
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