In one way, though, I remained fully involved with my family’s current entanglements. Not a day went by that I didn’t think about animal poachers and the devastation they caused. The crushing reality of poaching rode in the Cruiser with Luke and me on every game drive, every day.
Only three rhinoceroses were known to exist in the vast reserve surrounding Motembo. They were black rhinos, coveted for their horns and in grave danger of extinction. A concerted effort to save and breed their white rhino cousins in heavily guarded reserves had rescued that species from annihilation. A similar concern for black rhinos had yet to ensure the animals’ survival. As Luke and I toured Motembo’s sectors, we considered ourselves lucky to see even one. When we did, we usually spotted a pair of armed rangers, Marks’s men, standing in the shadows.
Most of the rhino bodyguards were local residents dressed in various combinations of official and unofficial ranger clothing, looking the worse for wear. They gripped assorted, humble weapons that could do little to deter paramilitaries armed with grenades and automatic rifles. At best, the rangers might keep away desperate locals—impoverished men not unlike themselves, looking to lift their families from a tenuous, barebones existence. Each time I saw the rangers posed watchfully near an animal, I was struck anew by the difficulty of their jobs, the paltry funds supporting them, and the exceptional courage the work required.
Magnificent elephant herds still roamed our reserve, although Luke said fewer came through than in the past. We were acutely attuned to the fact that ivory poaching claimed tens of thousands of African elephants every year, hundreds a day. Countless elephants that once might have crossed our territory had been erased from the face of the earth. All that remained of them was ivory. Ivory stacked like firewood in warehouses. Ivory fashioned into trinkets, whatnots, and doodads. Ivory carved into intricate works of art and sold for millions in legal and black markets across the globe.
The ongoing depletion of African elephants made Motembo’s herds all the more precious and wonderful. The elephant families Luke and I encountered included enough old tuskers to excite an army of ivory traffickers. Fortunately, the ravages of the trade had so far spared our bonded groups—the families, herds, and affiliated elephant kin that awed and enchanted our guests. With no recollection of hunters or poachers seared into their memory-rich souls, the herds were wary but approachable. They tolerated humans to a remarkable degree, provided we demonstrated the proper respect.
On nearly every outing, Luke and I treated our passengers to a lengthy, hushed elephant visitation. We were careful to maintain a decorous distance between the Cruiser and the herd, particularly when calves were present. We always approached the animals at an angle and turned the vehicle politely broadside before stopping. We cautioned our passengers to sit quietly in place, which was rarely a problem with at least one six-ton goliath eyeballing us at close range. At the first sign of agitation or displeasure among the animals, we fired the engine and backed away. A stomped foot, bugle call, or mock charge with flared ears all meant “time to go!”
I came to know the elephants we met day after day, just as I had identified individual elephants near my village—the watchful matriarch with the ragged tail; the rowdy juvenile, already with a cracked tusk; the curious auntie; the nervous cousin with her eyes fixed on us as she pretended to feed, grass trailing from her mouth. Each herd had its individual characters, yet all herds were similar in the familial behaviors that knit them together.
I never tired of introducing guests to these intelligent, social, closely bonded creatures. At first, conscious of my role as trainee, I commented sparingly. But soon Luke’s nod became routine, and I evolved into the guide who talked about elephants.
“Here you see an older female, her sisters, their adult daughters, and all their offspring. They live together and share infant care and child rearing.” I spoke just above a whisper. If I sensed the guests wanted more, I would continue. “The oldest female carries a deep store of knowledge essential for the herd’s survival. She decides where the family will go and how long they will stay. She’s the chief protector, the prime holder of memory, the navigator …”
I knew when to shut up too because the elephants themselves held us in thrall. Their beguiling ways, their gentle nudges and low rumblings, their layered networks and special affinities never failed to captivate. Frequently, an inquisitive or rascally individual ventured almost within reach. The matriarch would notice, of course, and, depending on her assessment of the situation, intervene or not. If she felt comfortable with us, she might even participate in a closer inspection. Often enough, a sniffing, exploring elephant trunk touched one of us on the head or shoulder, light as a wisp.
As much as I loved lingering near the herds, I always worried when the lead elephant showed a relaxed attitude toward humans. Aged matriarchs with exceptionally long tusks were prime targets for poaching. Throughout Africa, these crucial females were being killed off at earlier and earlier ages, leaving the next female in line, if she survived, too young and unprepared to step into the leadership role.
The severe disorientation that follows the death of a matriarch can lead to the collapse of an entire herd. Calves become orphans. Young females are too traumatized to nurture or breed. No one remembers the location of the water hole or where to find the marula trees and their delicious fruit. Surviving elephants carry horrific memories that render them fearful and sometimes aggressive toward humans and their crops. Retaliatory hunting begins, and the cycle starts again.
Echoes of my mother’s death made the plight of the elephants all the more poignant. My own family had been lucky. We hadn’t collapsed without Mama because Zola, still in her teens, had stepped up quite capably to care for us.
As I studied the lives of elephants, Marks, too, was never far from my mind. Antipoaching efforts and the dangers they entailed formed a subtext in my life as a guide. I frequently wondered where Marks might be at a given moment. I worried for his safety. At the same time, I wished to hear he was closing in on the ruthless overseers who controlled the ivory trade. I kept my radio close at hand in case his patrol ventured within range of camp or our vehicle out in the bush. But so far I had heard nothing.
I learned that radio protocol in the bush discouraged nonessential communications, especially between the alpha ranger and a guide trainee. Jackson and Luke occasionally heard from Marks. They passed on what he said, mostly official business concerning tire tracks, campfires, or other signs of unusual activity in our area. From time to time, he reported the capture of a poacher or a group of poachers working together some distance from us—small-scale, unaffiliated opportunists for the most part. The oddly sober high fives and campfire toasts that followed told me a lot about my colleagues’ concern for Marks and the risks even a minor success represented. I imagined they had reacted with similar gravity to news of poachers caught by their late hero, Bongani Baas.
As the weeks flew by, Motembo felt increasingly like home. The camp’s tightly bonded community had welcomed me warmly, and now its members had become as familiar and important to me as people I had known for years. My relationship with Luke differed little from my long friendship with Roop. I sorely missed Mima but found consolation in the thriving partnerships I saw between Jackson and Kiki and between Luke and Jaleen. I couldn’t wait to share a life and a tent with the woman who had already set up camp in the reaches of my heart. As much as I loved Motembo, Mima’s absence was a privation I felt every day.
One afternoon, Chiddy arrived with deliveries for the kitchen and a letter. “Helloooooooo, Bonesy,” he called, rushing his great weight toward me. With a flourish he handed over a thick envelope.
My heart did backflips when I saw the handwriting on the front.
“I bring you love and kisses from your fine, fine girlfriend.” The sparkle in his eye almost outshone the diamond in his earlobe. “She is looking very well, you know.” He quickly added, “F
or someone who is lonesome and achy.”
The camp had emptied of guests that morning. My assignment for the day was to drive tools and lengths of wood to the bridge at Motembo’s entrance and make repairs as needed. I stuck the letter in my shirt pocket and almost ran to the Cruiser, glad for the chance to be alone. I set off, and once I was near the bridge, I parked in the shade and opened the envelope.
Dear Bonesy,
Surprise! Chiddy came by for supplies and offered to deliver a letter to you. He’s leaving for Motembo in the morning. I wish I could go too! I think about you all the time—how your training is going, whether you’re happy and well. Do you still like the people there? Are you meeting visitors from all over the world? You must have so many stories! Chiddy said he plans to stay overnight in camp. Maybe you’ll have time to write back? I hope so.
Everyone here misses you. Especially me.
Roop and Granny Nobbs came into the store this week. Granny was using a new walker with wheels and a basket for groceries. Roop told me Mrs. Dubin at the bank managed the legal process for Granny to take possession of Grandpa Nobbs’s safe-deposit box. When Granny opened the box, she found the will he had written leaving everything to her, plus some money. Roop didn’t say how much, but he did say Grandpa Nobbs won more at the cockfights than anyone ever guessed. He looked pretty happy—Roop, that is. His chicken business is growing. Mother and I are thinking about selling chicken parts in the store as soon as we get a new fridge.
Oh, Roop said fishing has been lousy without you.
I’ve seen Zola a few times. Unfortunately, she’s always with Skinner. After what you told Mother and me, I don’t like him at all. Did you know he wears a lucky bean seed bracelet like yours, only thicker? At least eight strands, wide as a cuff. Maybe he’s your sister’s project, like she’s trying to reform him or something. Good luck with that is all I can say.
Donovan and Drew still go to your uncle’s shop most afternoons after school. They work in the store on Saturdays. Stash has taken on a few more carpentry students. The workshop is buzzing. When your Aunt Letty came in one day and asked how I was, I told her very busy! I must have mentioned something about needing more help in the store because, much to my surprise, she returned the next morning and said “when can I start?” Now she sits at the cash register, and I’m free to do everything else. The customers love her, of course. I’m very grateful for her help. (Between you and me, I think she has another motive—making sure the twins aren’t pressed into service before they finish high school.)
By the way, we keep the Temik behind the counter now. That way we can see who buys it, and how much. Our new doors and locks should help prevent thieves from breaking in. I’m still haunted by the thought of poisoned water holes and poisoned animals. Are you seeing herds of elephants, alive and well? I hope you are.
I’ve saved the not-so-good news for last. I’m sorry to tell you my mother isn’t well. She tires easily and gets winded doing the slightest thing. When she comes to the store, she only lasts a couple of hours, and even that’s a struggle. You can see why I’m so grateful to your aunt. I’m really worried about my mother. We’re going to see another doctor next week.
I hope you won’t be too disappointed if you and I have to delay our plans. Maybe the doctors will know what to do, and Mother will be back to normal soon. That’s what I’m hoping, of course. But I think we both should be prepared in case my family needs me here and I can’t join you at Motembo for a while.
When are you coming home for a visit? Soon, I hope. In the meantime, please remember we all love you and miss you. Me most of all.
Your Mima
I reread the part about Mrs. Swale as if the words might hold a different meaning the second time around. They didn’t, of course. Yet the truth of them remained inert on the page, unprocessed. I couldn’t believe Mima’s mother was ill. She had always seemed so sturdy and dependable, a fixture in the grocery store. I wondered if Mima could be mistaken about the symptoms or their severity. Mrs. Swale worked hard; maybe she needed a vacation.
I shifted in my seat and swatted away a fly, resisting the tendrils of despair that threatened to creep in and overtake my mood. If Mima was correct, her mother’s illness held implications I didn’t want to think about, at least not yet.
I found only slightly better news in Skinner’s continued ignorance of the deceptions simmering around him. Zola’s deceit still clenched my stomach with worry. My sister’s confidence in her exit strategy struck me as foolhardy, even if she had managed to convince Marks the plan would work. Clearly, she had recruited Marks as a coconspirator. Or had he recruited her? The details were nebulous, but the peril remained the same.
For relief, I thought about Granny’s windfall, Roop’s chickens, Stash’s busy workshop, and Aunt Letty’s new job. The people I cared about at home intersected like threads in a fabric, crossing and recrossing in a tightly woven pattern. I didn’t mind at all that I hung off like a loose button. I remained attached to my loved ones, and that was all that mattered.
A beetle thwacked against the windscreen, jolting me back to the Cruiser, the bridge, the tools, and the lumber piled around me. I rotated my arms to ease the knot between my shoulder blades. A furl of hot air brushed against my skin. The surprising thing was how calm I felt, how I had taken in and tucked away the unavoidable reality that Mima and I might not be together for a long, long time.
I fingered the strand of lucky bean seeds circling my wrist. Good fortune in work had little to do with luck, it seemed to me. My journey from Bonesy the kid to Bones the guide trainee had taken industry, diligence, and the support of caring people. Without the effort I had put in and plenty of help from others, I would probably be coaxing cassava out of a dusty patch in the shadow of my boyhood home.
In love, though, my lucky bean seeds had more than lived up to their name. Mima embodied everything I wanted in a girlfriend, life partner, and wife. At times I was still astonished she had chosen me. Her devotion to her family and her sense of responsibility concerning the store threw a big, fat wrench into our tender plans. Yet I viewed those loyalties as another reason to love and admire her. I was the one who had gone away, after all, expecting her to follow. Had I assumed too much?
That disturbing thought had rippled between my ears more than once. Once again, I quashed it. I slid the letter into my pocket and reached for the hammer. Mima and I were solid, committed, working toward a future we both could share. Our good fortune seemed so assured and complete that I almost felt sorry for Skinner and his malevolent, duplicitous, doomed existence. Skinner would never be as lucky as me, or as lucky as Zola and Marks for that matter.
A row of nails had popped up from a dried plank in the middle of the bridge. I hammered them in, barely registering the racket that sent a brace of guinea fowl rushing for cover. My sister, her future husband, and the scam they were running on Skinner overtook my mind like a dense cloud of dust. As much as I loathed Skinner and his ludicrous, eight-strand lucky bean seed bracelet, I dreaded the day he would discover just how unlucky he was.
That night, I skipped the campfire and Jackson’s hospitable Amarula to retreat to my tent and answer Mima’s letter. I carefully cut a page of creamy paper from the back of my journal to use as stationery and borrowed a good pen from Teaspoon. In flickering lantern light I wrote for over an hour.
I told Mima I shared her concern for her mother and assured her I would support any decisions she felt necessary. I asked her to greet my family, the Dirty Dees, Roop, and Granny. I said the days were flying by. I explained how we divvied up the responsibilities in camp so that everyone contributed something important and worthwhile. As I wrote, I thought about roles that might one day interest her. She was more than capable of handling any job, even guiding if she wanted to train. I told her I saw many elephants and other interesting wildlife, including the guests! I said I didn’t know when I would be home. I wrote tha
t I loved her and missed her, that life wasn’t complete without her. I assured her there would be a place for her at Motembo whenever she was able to join me. I folded the pages and put them in an envelope, dropping in a single lucky bean seed I had found on a trail near camp.
22
AS THE WEEKS PASSED BY, my status as a trainee faded from everyone’s mind, including my own. My responsibilities differed little from Luke’s. During one three-day period when camp was full and Newsom had been called away on a family matter, Jackson assigned me to guide four Australians while Luke and Kiki took other foursomes. This put me in sole charge of the Aussies’ wildlife-viewing experience, covering all three sectors, the Big Five, and any special interests the guests might declare. Although Jackson’s confidence in me boosted my own, a case of the jitters almost overshadowed my excitement. I had learned enough to know that much could go wrong on a game drive: a flat tire, a dead end in mud or water, an unwell, injured, or misbehaving guest, a too-close encounter with the animal kingdom, or worse, animals that refused to show themselves.
The men, four brothers celebrating a fiftieth birthday without their wives, were relaxed and jokey. All four had been on safari before. They knew and respected the drill. To my relief, they weren’t too particular about seeing every species in Africa but responded with gratitude at every decent sighting. Sundowners brought them special pleasure (double gin and tonics, my specialty), and the men were good company around the campfire. After they departed, Jackson handed me a fat envelope containing a generous tip and a note that read, “Eight thumbs up for our guide, Bones!”
The next day, Jackson came after me holding a clipboard. “It’s about time we tied up the loose ends and got you certified. Meet me in the Cruiser.”
The Story of Bones Page 23