He nodded. “Of course. You are here to work. Please follow me.”
We retraced our steps past the staff tents, the laundry, and the kitchen. At the pavilion he indicated an empty space on one end where the bar would go. A stack of lumber sat to the side. The bar was planned to face a seating area that was already handsomely furnished with deep rattan chairs, earth-toned cushions, and tables made from djembe drums. An imposing wooden tribal sculpture stood in one corner. At the far end were a long dining table and a dozen or so leather chairs. The furnishings looked solid, understated, elegant. It pleased me to know that the bedroom suites Stash and I had built lived up to this high standard. But I regretted that I would have to inform my uncle we should not expect orders for lounge furniture or a dining set.
“I’ll take you to one of the guest tents,” Teaspoon said. “The furniture you made for them is a great success.”
After we stopped at the van to retrieve my tool belt, I followed Teaspoon down a well-raked path leading away from the tents we had visited earlier. On each side of the walkway, selective pruning and clearing had reined in the woodland without ruining the sense of barely tamed wilderness. An unlit lamp marked the turnoff to a narrower path that ended at the first guest tent.
“Tent” was inadequate to describe this dwelling. The large, green canvas-walled structure sat on a raised wooden platform accessible via four steps, sturdy handrails, and a front deck furnished with rattan chairs, a hammock, and a sisal floor mat. The deck faced the open plain and a water hole situated for prime animal viewing. We entered through a screen door with a tricky latch. “To keep out the baboons,” Teaspoon explained.
He went in first to raise the window covers. As light flooded in, I caught my breath. Even with the bed rails lying loose, this was the most beautiful room I had ever seen. The polished mahogany floor broadcast warmth and light, softly mirroring the chairs, desk, tables, and wardrobe Stash and I had built. Thanks to specifications from Jackson Quinn, the furniture was perfectly scaled. The rich wood hues partnered well with generous kuba cloth cushions and canvas walls. “Bedroom suite” didn’t convey how integral the furniture was to this welcoming space. Each piece looked as though it had grown where it stood, from a seed that had taken root in the hardwood floor. I felt a surge of pride mixed with regret that Uncle Stash wasn’t here to see the room too.
A partition behind the bed concealed a granite vanity with two porcelain sinks outfitted in gleaming chrome hardware. In one corner stood a loo, and in the other, a showerhead as big as a hubcap. Teaspoon unzipped a side door that opened to a second shower on a slab of granite overlooking the water hole.
“You can see why we are forbidden to go near the water hole when guests are present.” He lowered his voice. “Especially when one of them is a shapely lady.”
He looked quite serious, so I nodded, straight-faced. Clearly, maintaining privacy in a camp so open to the wilderness required a certain amount of forethought.
“In ten days’ time, we will welcome our first visitors. Until then, we will be very busy.”
“I’ll help however I can.” I looked around. “Do you know where the mattresses are?”
“Chiddy will deliver them when the beds are finished. I believe you know Chiddy?”
“I do.” I recalled Chiddy’s account of jolly evenings around the campfire. I hoped I would still be here when he arrived.
“Good. Now I will leave you. Please latch the screen door behind me and always when you go in or out.” At the door he turned. “I will be working at the pavilion. Come there before dark. I wouldn’t want the lions to get you on your first day.”
After he left, I quickly latched the door, thinking more about lions than about baboons. A kudu with magnificent spiral horns had come to drink at the water hole. I had seen kudus in the wild, but never so close, with so little effort. The sight held me rapt. For a moment, I imagined myself a guest in that splendid tent, gazing at the untrammeled Africa I had flown a great distance to see. I wondered if actual guests understood the significance of well-tended comfort so close to nature, in the heart of a fragile ecosystem. People like Jackson Quinn surely did. I knew this because every calendar from Ruby’s Amazing Safaris proclaimed “the symbiosis between tourists on safari and the wilderness they visit, photograph, and support through their spending.” According to Ruby, the safari business was a mainstay of wildlife conservation.
The kudu looked up, apparently alert to some faint vibration on the far side of the water. I watched as the animal listened, motionless, frozen with primordial anxiety. In a moment, another imperceptible shift in the atmosphere signaled the all clear. The kudu resumed drinking, and I turned to my work.
Assembling the long rails of the king-size bed by myself proved awkward but not impossible. The components Stash and I had built fit together smoothly enough, and by jockeying everything into place, I managed to complete the bed frame in only a little longer than it should have taken. I was sliding in a support for the mosquito net when footsteps sounded on the deck outside. The person who tapped on the screen door could only be Jackson Quinn.
“Hello, Bones,” he said in a hearty voice. “I see you haven’t wasted any time.” He was broad chested and not too tall, with light green eyes and a full head of curly blond hair recently flattened by a hat. His fair skin, pale on the forehead, pink below the hat line, was as wrinkled as a road map.
“Uh, hello.” I hurried to unlatch the door. “Mr. Quinn?”
“Jackson. We go by first names here.” He shook my hand the way Teaspoon had, by gripping my wrist. “You drove here alone?”
I nodded, a little tongue-tied in the presence of the man I had revered from afar. I noticed he wore the uniform of a guide—shorts and a coordinating shirt with two pockets and rolled-up sleeves. He had no doubt spent the day in those clothes, yet he appeared neat and pulled together. I was glad I had taken the trouble to change before coming into camp.
“Good for you.” He regarded me for a moment. “Not an easy trip.”
“I got stuck in the mud. Some men helped winch me out.”
“They did? Old guy and a couple of younger ones?”
I nodded.
“That would be Sam and his sons. ‘Good Sam,’ we call him. He lives in the village and washes dishes here on the condition he stays out of sight. Sam is a benign soul, but he can look scary to visitors.”
At that, I nodded again.
“When no guests are present, we let Sam and his boys hunt small game in the area—strictly for the pot, you understand. They built a blind overlooking the river. When a vehicle gets stuck, they’re always the first to know.” He gripped the upright I had just installed, testing its stability. “You’re an excellent carpenter. You and your uncle.”
“Thanks.”
“Teaspoon got you settled?”
“Yes, he gave me a nice welcome.”
“Sorry I wasn’t here to greet you.” He hesitated, regarding me thoughtfully. “Have you been to a safari camp before?”
I shook my head.
“We’ll show you around.” He turned to go and then looked back. “Thanks for coming.”
* * *
By dusk, I had finished assembling the support for the mosquito net. The bed and its roof-high frame were as big as some of the houses in my village. At home, I could rent this bed as a dwelling. I gathered my tools, covered the windows, latched the door, and hurried back to the pavilion minutes before darkness descended.
Teaspoon was lighting kerosene lamps grouped around the seating area. He had set seven places at the dining table and lit a row of candles down the middle. Darkness had fallen as fast as a curtain dropped over a window. Against the warm pools of light, the surrounding blackness took on a profound, almost tangible density. I hoped I wouldn’t have to walk back to Teaspoon’s tent by myself.
Jackson and two women were the first
to arrive. “Bones, meet my wife, Kiki,” he said, touching the shoulder of a slender, small-boned woman. A smattering of freckles dotted her nose. “And this is Jaleen. She puts up with Luke and manages our housekeeping.”
Kiki and Jaleen each shook my hand the conventional way. I was struck by Kiki’s iron grip, unexpected in a person so slight. Both women welcomed me warmly, Jaleen with a girlish giggle, Kiki in a crystalline English accent that suggested generations of unruffled prosperity.
“The furniture you built is brilliant, Bones. Absolutely brilliant,” said Kiki. “We are very pleased.”
I suppressed a smile. Not effing brilliant? “Thank you. My uncle Stash helped.”
Her eyes shifted. I turned to see two men walking in. Each wore a guide’s uniform similar to Jackson’s. But unlike Jackson and the others, these two were unsmiling and grim. When Kiki introduced us, the younger man, Luke, nodded in my direction. The other, Newsom, shook my hand absently, his face taut.
Luke sank into a chair. He rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed his face with both hands, not looking up.
“Something wrong?” Jackson asked.
Newsom stood to the side, upright and dignified, hands folded in front. He had a bristle of white hair. I couldn’t guess his age, but in looks and bearing, he struck me as a wise elder, a man who had seen and done just about everything. In a soft voice he said, “BB is dead.”
Audible intakes of breath preceded a shocked silence. Jaleen lifted a hand to her mouth. Kiki leaned into Jackson’s side. Teaspoon stood slack-jawed, shoulders slumped.
“We found what was left of him on the flats near Jackal Pan,” Luke said, locating his voice. He tilted up his face to address Jackson. “He was killed at least a day ago with an automatic rifle. We tracked boot prints to the river, where the prints ended.”
“Bloody hell.” Jackson ran a hand through his hair. “Have you told his family?”
“Yes. And we got word to Marks. I tried to radio you, but we were out of range.”
“Marks?” I couldn’t help blurting the name. “The ranger?”
Jackson looked at me. “You know him?”
I nodded. “He lives in my village.”
“Then you might know he leads the antipoaching effort in a big region. BB—full name Bongani Baas—was Marks’s friend and one of the best rangers we had.”
I hadn’t known this about Marks—that he led many people. My admiration for him, already bright and shiny, took on even more wattage. I remembered the anguish on his face when he described the poisoned water hole and the animals that had died there, his emotional investment in causes that mattered. I couldn’t imagine the grief he must feel at the murder of a ranger who was also his friend.
“Why don’t we sit down,” Kiki said, nodding toward the dining table. She directed me to a chair. “I’m sorry, Bones. This is very hard news. We’ve known BB a long time.”
No one spoke as we settled around the table. Jackson took the seat next to me. A heavy silence hung in the air. When Jackson finally spoke, he turned to me. “BB, Kiki, and I started here as guides when the old camp first opened. Bongani became a master tracker—one of the finest and most capable men I’ve ever known.”
The others nodded and murmured. Jaleen sniffed, dabbing her nose with a tissue.
“He had a special way with elephants,” Luke said. “The guests he guided almost always got a close-up look at a herd. They could sit quietly in an open vehicle while the elephants lingered close enough to touch, even when newborn calves were present.” He shrugged. “The same elephants that trusted BB could be skittish around other guides. We never figured out exactly how he did it.”
They took turns speaking, filling in for each other. I supposed it was a way for them to process the news and pay homage to a remarkable man. I was beginning to understand how tightly knit they all were, so isolated out in the bush. My own throat tightened. I swallowed and blinked.
Kiki spoke next. “When ivory poachers moved in to terrify and slaughter the elephants, BB gave up a top job as a guide to become a ranger and risk his life every day. He was fearless in his pursuit of poachers. He would track them far into hostile, lawless territories.”
“Marks will tell you BB was a good soul,” Newsom said in a quiet voice, looking at me. The older man was calm and serious. I could feel his years. At the mention of Marks, I sat up straighter. I felt proud that a man who had befriended me was so closely associated with their hero, Bongani Baas.
“Once,” Newsom continued, “BB and another ranger followed vultures to an elephant carcass. The poachers were still there, two men working on a tusk with a handsaw. They weren’t the organized criminals who kill with AK-47s and maim with electric tools. These men were locals—farmers, with crops to protect and families to feed.
“One of the men, trembling and very afraid, aimed a rifle at BB. Using a calm voice and the language of a kinsman, BB told him to put down the weapon. He said even though he had caught them breaking the law, he knew they weren’t bad men. He persuaded them to leave the ivory behind. He said if they did, instead of remembering their faces, tracking them to the end of the earth, and throwing them in jail as he surely could, he would forget he ever saw them.”
No one at the table made a sound while Newsom talked. It was the longest speech I would ever hear from him. Somewhere in the inky distance, a hyena whooped and cackled.
Jackson picked up the story. “Marks heard about this when BB and the other ranger showed up carrying a fresh pair of tusks. Although more senior authorities pressured BB to reveal the identity of those two men, he never did. The problem of locals protecting their crops from destructive animals or hunting for bush meat to feed their families isn’t going away anytime soon.” He shook his head. “We try not to be too aggressive against them. It is very difficult to convince subsistence farmers that wildlife is an asset that needs protection.”
“What happened to the tusks?” I asked, almost in a whisper.
“They went into a government stockpile of confiscated ivory. Periodically, the authorities incinerate the tusks in a public place. A tragic waste from start to finish.”
Newsom spoke up again. “Some version of BB’s forgiveness got around. The villagers started helping him track the routes of ivory traders working for bosses far away—the ones who fund resistance armies and drug cartels. Many people gave him leads. In time, BB led the disruption of more than one heavily armed poaching ring.”
“So of course, he became a target,” Luke said. His face looked gray, prematurely aged, though he wasn’t much older than me. I guessed Bongani Baas had been important in Luke’s life.
Teaspoon passed bowls of steaming stew and a platter of corn bread warm from the oven. Hunger gnawed at my gut. I was glad that even in their grief, the Motembo team appreciated good food. No one said much while we ate. The tinkles and plinks of cutlery filled the pavilion. When we finished, Kiki poured coffee. Teaspoon cut and served wedges of apple tart with warm custard poured on top. The meal was delicious, better than anything Zola had ever cooked. I made this assessment of my treacherous, misguided, Skinner-loving sister and her culinary abilities without the slightest twinge of guilt.
Jackson got up and announced that he and Kiki would depart in the morning to visit BB’s family. They said good night and left. Luke and Jaleen excused themselves too. I watched Newsom light a cigarette and stare into the darkness. Teaspoon and I left him to his thoughts as we cleared the table, working silently, weighted by the sad news.
When the dining area was in order, we put out the lights and made our way to our tent. Like the others who had stepped from the pavilion into blackness, Teaspoon carried a rifle and a flashlight. “You must hold these in your hands whenever you walk on our paths at night,” he told me, shaking both items for emphasis. “Animals often visit after dark. It is best to make some noise so you don’t surprise them.”
>
We hurried through the chill with him in the lead, chatting about nothing much, just to create sound. He moved the light rapidly back and forth across the path in front of us, occasionally darting the beam up into the trees. When we reached the tent, he unzipped the door flap and made a quick inspection inside. I was beginning to understand that the lessons I had learned about vigilance in the bush applied equally here, even in a camp as civilized and well-appointed as Motembo.
Teaspoon changed into sweats, folded his clothes, fell into bed, and began softly snoring almost instantly. He slept on his back in the dead-potentate position: legs straight, feet together, hands folded. Sealed away in slumber, he looked as neat and tidy as everything else in his carefully maintained quarters.
I assumed the dead-potentate position too but felt too wide-awake to go to sleep. My mind reeled with images from the preceding twenty-four hours. Already the elephant herd that had surrounded my van in the middle of the night seemed an ancient memory. I silently thanked Good Sam and his sons for rescuing me from the river. I relived my visit to the hollow baobab tree and every detail of my arrival in camp. The story of BB and his connection to Marks claimed another half an hour. I tried to shift my thoughts to less stimulating reaches of my brain. But I got stuck on the thrilling fact that I had just dined with actual safari guides who had treated me almost as an equal.
Staring up into darkness with excitement churning through me, I doubted I would sleep at all. On top of everything, wild creatures were making a racket outside the tent. I tried to put animal names to the sounds I heard: the honks, grunts, hoots, and coughs. I was straining to identify a faint rustle at the threshold of the audible when a mighty, full-throated roar jerked me up to sitting position. I held my breath and stared into the darkness.
Teaspoon skipped a snort and then continued snoring as before. The night chorus outside took a pause too, lion-alert and waiting, but only for a moment. In seconds, the blabbering, muttering, whispering bush came alive once again.
The Story of Bones Page 14