“Stash agreed not to make a big deal of it,” Zola continued. “Better for the larger cause if Skinner felt himself in the clear—emboldened even.”
So Stash, too, had known Skinner was under suspicion. That, and not forgetfulness, explained why he had taken the blame for the open door and said he didn’t want to report the attempted theft. I sank down in my chair. Next, they were going to tell me Hannie was a double agent.
Marks drew Zola closer. “Skinner has been on our radar for years. Now, thanks to your brave and intelligent sister, he could lead us to the beating heart of the ivory trade.”
I understood the plan, but the words sat like a heavy weight on my chest. The beating heart of the ivory trade. Elegant language for the leaders of a ruthless, militarized, multimillion-dollar criminal network. Very bad actors who used wildlife poaching to finance insurgent wars, drug and weapons trafficking, and human slavery. Those were the people my sister Zola was trying to find.
19
ON-JOB TRAINING AT MOTEMBO WAS truly on-the-job. The afternoon after Teaspoon and I drove into camp, I stood in a row with the rest of the staff to welcome twelve new guests. Like the other guides, I wore khaki pants and a matching shirt with two breast pockets and the regulation pointed collar. Jackson said I was allowed to wear my lucky bean seed bracelet, so I had that on too. My boots had looked so new that I had scuffed them in the dirt to more closely resemble Luke’s well-worn footwear. As I smiled at the new arrivals, I was struck by the social power of uniforms. To the guests, I shared equal status with Luke and the others. I had never felt such pride in my clothes.
The guests included a British family of four and eight adults from Japan—the first Asians I had ever seen. As the twelve descended from the van that delivered them, Jaleen stepped forward with a tray of lemon-scented hand towels. Teaspoon offered fresh fruit drinks. Jackson said a few words of welcome and introduced the staff, naming me—thrillingly—as a guide along with Luke, Newsom, and Kiki. Nodding toward Kiki, he added, “my wife.” At that, Luke and I exchanged barely suppressed smiles.
The Brits were George and Margaret Haviland and their teenage daughters, Lacey and Slim. Both girls were closer to twelve than twenty, yet they no doubt raised the khaki fever flag in Jackson’s ever-wary mind. They were flaxen haired and lithe, seemingly unaware of their power to disturb every male in sight as they stretched and yawned and redid the elastic bands that held their ponytails. I never found out where Lacey had gotten her name. But Slim was tall and built like a celery stalk, so I guess that explained hers.
I soon learned that the Haviland sisters were keen on photography—when the camera was pointed at them. At such times their usual somewhat blank expressions changed so suddenly to smiles of unfettered joy that I wondered if I had missed something. They licked their lips, posed, and grinned as though a jury of future husbands might evaluate their images. I was pleased to know that whatever happened under Luke’s and my guidance, the girls’ photos were likely to portray an exceptionally happy experience.
The visitors from Japan carried more serious photo equipment, with tripods and long lenses suitable for capturing wildlife in minute detail. Their English was heavy on courtesy and light on everything else, which might be why Jackson assigned Kiki and Newsom to them and gave the British family to Luke and me.
Minutes after we welcomed the Havilands, Luke put me in charge of the daughters. “Girl duty,” he whispered. “All yours.” I figured he had met enough visitors to anticipate something unusual, but I had no idea what that might be. I was about to learn that some guests required more effort than others.
While the newcomers settled in their tents, Luke and I headed for the parking area to ready our Land Cruiser for the afternoon game drive. We would guide the guests on two outings a day, the first from just after dawn until late morning and the second following afternoon tea, until dinner around eight. During the heat of midday, when all wise animals took shelter from the sun, everyone would remain in camp.
Luke handed me a list of supplies to check: fuel, oil, water, spanner, and other automotive necessities, plus a first aid kit and freshly provisioned camp box. He reminded me to bring my new rifle and long-range radio. Optional but useful items, he said, were a personal canteen and my journal for recording animal sightings and other field notes. The last item made me smile. I doubted Mr. Kitwick had ever imagined such an outdoorsy, adventurous future for his gift.
Inside the camp box I found another checklist specifying the items needed for “sundowners,” which meant drinks. Based on the Havilands’ preferences, today’s sundowners required gin, tonic, and Diet Coke, an unfamiliar variety of my favorite beverage. I checked the labels on two cans and ticked “Diet Coke” off the list. A dozen bottles of water and a snack from Nate’s kitchen, roasted groundnuts, completed the inventory.
We had been at work less than thirty minutes when a shrill whistle pierced the air. “Tent five,” Luke said with a knowing look. “You won’t need your rifle, but take it anyway.”
I grabbed my firearm and ran. I found Lacey and Slim huddled together on the king-size bed I had built, shrouded in mosquito netting. A heap of delicate clothing on the hardwood floor resembled a pile of fruit bats. On the coffee table, the girls had arranged brightly colored leaves and random bits of foliage they must have collected outside. A quick survey told me that none of the species caused blisters, infection, or death. Less indigenous doodads crowded the nightstands: pink nail polish, a hair band, sunglasses, tiny bottles of lotion and perfume, and a diary with a cat on the cover. I had never imagined so many foreign objects, much less colorful girlie clutter, in the tents Stash and I had furnished with so much care.
Slim still had the alarm whistle pinched between her lips. Lacey was gripping a can of insect repellant aimed at the canvas wall. “Tarantula!” she shouted, pointing to a large, harmless spider.
I put down the rifle. Under the girls’ watchful stare, I eyed the blameless, cowering arachnid. “This is a black house spider. Quite timid. He’s far more interested in small insects than in you.”
The girls gasped and mewled as I coaxed the creature into a drinking glass. It was a burly specimen, but nothing compared to the palm-sized spiders Zola regularly shooed from our house. I covered the glass with a tissue and carried it outside, thinking how different these girls were from the females I knew at home. I had once watched Mima flick away a scorpion without a blink.
Less than an hour later, the whistle blew again. This time, Slim had fried her “travel” hair dryer—an appliance designed for 110 to 120 volts—by plugging it into the camp’s higher-voltage outlet. Apparently, no one had told her that the current in Africa was the same as at home in Great Britain. The ensuing smoke and sparks appeared to worry her less than the loss of an essential grooming tool.
“Now what do we do?” She turned to me, sodden and forlorn.
Both girls were dabbing towels at their long, wet hair. They wore bathrobes with not much on underneath, as far as I could tell. I tried to avert my eyes. Although the situation seemed ridiculous to me, the sisters appeared quite undone by the crisis.
I cleared my throat. “If you sit in the chairs on the deck, the hot breeze will dry your hair quite reliably,” I said, managing to keep a straight face.
“What about the lions?” Lacey asked, peering through the door.
“At this time of day, the animals are all asleep,” I replied, stretching the truth only a little. This seemed to reassure them.
Afternoon tea brought the camp together again a couple of hours later. Teaspoon had laid the buffet with tea paraphernalia and one of Nate’s generously iced layer cakes. The Japanese guests arrived at precisely three thirty, all eight carrying their excellent cameras and bulging camera bags. They bowed and smiled. Jaleen must have noticed their polite confusion about local tea-serving customs because she quickly stepped in to pour.
The group settle
d together in a corner of the seating area, chatting softly in Japanese. In lieu of speaking, Jaleen did a good job of returning their smiles and head bobs. Kiki and Newsom lingered nearby in case anyone wanted to ask a question or otherwise engage in conversation. With this congenial but self-contained group, conversation in English seemed unlikely.
Margaret and George Haviland hurried in next. They looked fresh and eager. It crossed my mind that the couple might be happy to have discovered a thick stand of trees between their tent and their daughters’. Serious-looking binoculars hung from their necks. George carried a Birds of Africa guidebook bristling with bookmarks. When they had settled at a table with tea and cake, Luke complimented them on their gear.
“You’re interested in birds, I see.”
“We are,” Margaret answered. “I hope to spot a carmine bee eater, a Marabou stork, and …” She stopped, flushed. “So many, really.” She shared a look with her husband. “Our daughters are less keen, I’m afraid.”
George cast an annoyed look toward the path. “Where are they?”
“Bones will fetch them,” Luke said, checking his watch. A little over two hours of daylight remained. After that the game drive would continue in the dark with a handheld spotlight. Birding would be finished until the following morning.
I was turning to go when Lacey and Slim sauntered up the path, fluffing their shiny, dry hair.
“Dios mío,” Luke said under his breath.
The girls were dressed in skimpy tops and short shorts. They both wore flip-flops that resembled platters of pink-tipped marzipan toes. Lacey had pinned a thick mess of curls on top of her head with a bright red clip. Slim wore what looked like a stretchy yellow bandage around her chest. Below the bandage was an acre of pale midriff and a blue butterfly tattoo.
I must have been staring because Luke palmed my cheek to turn my face toward his. “Go get sunblock, insect repellant, extra ponchos, extra hats, and a blanket. Put them in the Cruiser.”
I rushed off, wondering why he hadn’t told the girls to go back to their tents and dress more appropriately. Didn’t Lacey and Slim understand they were going for a four-hour, open-air drive through the African bush? Apparently, correcting guests was prohibited, even when they acted like morons. I realized I had a lot to learn about the finer points of guiding.
* * *
Straight out of camp, a cheetah stepped across our path. Luke pressed on the brake. Seeing a cheetah up close was an uncommon experience, rarely accomplished without an impressive show of bushcraft by a persevering guide. I suspected Luke felt irritated by the almost zoo-like ease of the encounter.
Behind me, Slim uttered little bat-like squeals of excitement. Lacey shouted, “Ooh! A baby leopard!” and jumped to her feet.
Luke killed the engine. “It’s a cheetah. Please sit down.”
I noted the command, polite yet firm. Lacey lowered herself to the edge of the seat she shared with Slim. On the upper bench, Margaret and George had raised their binoculars and quickly dropped them. Now they sat forward, studying the cheetah with rapt attention. Their focus and demeanor suggested a captivating interest, the exact response guides hoped to inspire. I couldn’t believe our luck, minutes out of camp.
“This is a male,” Luke said. He had shifted his body a half turn toward the passengers and casually rested an elbow on the seat back. But his eyes never left the cheetah. His rifle was mounted under the dashboard, inches from his hands. His voice stayed low and even. “He has a full stomach. Can you see? He won’t be hunting today.”
As Luke spoke, the cheetah paused and took note of the large, diesel-smelling object that had interrupted his walk.
The girls squealed almost in unison. “It’s looking at us!” Lacey slid sideways into Slim, putting a few more centimeters between herself and the fastest cat on the planet, now about three meters off our right front tire.
“If we sit still and stay quiet, he’ll lose interest,” Luke said.
The girls froze—a commendable response. I hoped they remembered to breathe.
Luke’s posture, his steady voice, and everything about him projected the calm he hoped to instill in our passengers. Shouting, standing, and gesturing broadly not only ruined the serenity of the setting but also alerted and scattered the wildlife we wanted to observe. Worse, attention-getting behavior so close to an unpredictable creature could spark its curiosity or even its hunting instinct.
“See the black marks beneath his eyes? A leopard doesn’t have those. It has a band of spots around the neck. So we say ‘the cheetah weeps for the leopard’s necklace.’”
I noted the way Luke took in and corrected Lacey’s misperception without implying she was stupid or ignorant. Actually, cheetahs and leopards possessed entirely different head shapes, body types, and markings. But to an unschooled eye, I supposed they could look alike. My admiration for Luke was growing by the minute.
The cheetah soon had had enough of us and disappeared in the grass. Luke drove on, pointing out a fish eagle cruising overhead and a hornbill pecking in the dust. Margaret got busy checking birds off a list.
“Is that a Bradfield’s hornbill or a crowned?” she called from the back.
Luke slowed the Cruiser and nodded toward me.
I cleared my throat. “A Bradfield’s. The head is paler brown, and it has a smaller, orangier beak.”
“I see,” she answered, studying the guidebook George was holding open. “There are, um …” She paused. “Seven different hornbills. Are they all found here?”
“The gray and the yellow-billed are most common here.”
“What about Damaras?” she asked, studying the book. “Might we see those?”
Behind me Slim let out a loud, exasperated sigh.
I shook my head. “Damaras live in drier regions.”
Luke rewarded me with a nod and a polite revving of the engine that ended the inquiries. I remembered Marks’s admonition to keep in mind the interests of everyone in the group. Avid birders could easily monopolize the commentary because bird species were abundant in Africa, and they were everywhere.
Luke shifted into first gear and stepped on the gas. The Cruiser shot forward. For the next several minutes we bounced and heaved across the chalky hardpan, nosing into dried-out rivulets and up steep, tilting dune slopes. I glanced back to see Lacey and Slim sitting forward, gripping the rail, boredom cured as we rocketed along. The butterfly on Slim’s midsection hovered an arm’s length from my face. She flashed me a grin and pushed up the little round sunglasses that had slipped down her nose.
I felt the heat of a blush rise in my cheeks. I turned to face the front, mortified, hoping she hadn’t noticed. At that moment, Luke sped up a rise that dropped off suddenly, sending us airborne for a fraction of a second. High-pitched whoops accompanied our landing on flat, grassy turf. Although I doubted liftoff was a sanctioned driving technique, I silently thanked Luke for the timely distraction.
20
WHILE FENDING OFF TEENAGE BOREDOM, Luke also put a good distance between us and the other vehicles. At a little after four o’clock, Newsom, Kiki, and we had headed in different directions in three Cruisers, four guests to a ride. The guides long ago had divvied up the reserve into three sectors, each measuring in the tens of thousands of acres. By keeping to one sector and rotating each time out, we introduced guests to new terrain and, frequently, different species on every foray. Equally important, we avoided the sight and sounds of other vehicles.
I learned right away that solo tracking was a point of pride at Motembo. Unlike guides at many camps, ours worked independently. They tracked and spotted on their own and never radioed colleagues to join a sighting, not even a five-star one such as lions at a kill or the increasingly rare phenomenon of two nearly extinct rhinos jousting for dominance.
The practice required the skill to find and follow spoor in all conditions, sometimes over gr
eat distances. The best guides turned the hunt into an adventure by pointing out the basics of tracking—how to distinguish old and recent prints, read scat and broken branches, and figure out an animal’s direction of travel and likely whereabouts. Some guests found the hunt even more thrilling than the sighting at its end.
On most days the herbivores—elephants, giraffes, zebras, a dozen species of antelope, and more—could be found quite easily on the open plain. Crocodiles and hippos occupied known stretches of the river. A guide’s familiarity with the terrain and its animal residents came into play here. No elephants in sight? Let’s try the water hole. None there? The marula grove. Has the herd moved to another sector? Let’s look for tracks. And so on. The guides had given names to familiar stretches of wilderness: Little Serengeti, Grassy Reach, RIP Gulch.
For our first outing with the Havilands, Luke’s and my sector included territory I had crossed while driving to camp six months earlier. We passed a familiar thornberry thicket and a pair of pointy termite mounds I recognized. I thought we might be going toward Three Flat Rocks and the lion pride that hung out there. But Luke skirted the boxy boulders and headed straight for the river.
“You’re skipping the Rocks?” If I leaned toward him, we could talk over the noise of the engine with little chance of being understood by the passengers in back.
“We’ve already seen a cheetah, so let’s save the lion hunt for later. We need to manage expectations, Bones. If we find lions now, the guests will expect a bloodthirsty cat every five minutes.” He gestured toward the river. “We’ll go look for waterbirds while it’s still light.”
I sat back in my seat. Margaret and George, at least, would be thrilled.
The sun was descending, but its heat and burn potential remained intense. I retrieved hats and a tube of sunblock from the trough next to my seat. Holding them out for Lacey and Slim, I was careful where I looked. The blue butterfly took up a monstrous portion of my peripheral vision. Slim accepted the sunblock and a hat. Lacey declined the hat but put out her hand for a generous squirt of lotion.
The Story of Bones Page 21