“I remember the chief sent his sons to help you guard me. As soon as we were out of sight, I got myself untied. His sons wanted me to kill you. Said they were waiting for the right time to jump you and let me go. There's no word for loyalty in Shona. I think they ended up fighting on our side.”
“It is true, Baba. But mostly, they were hiding.”
He downshifted to allow a troop of baboons to cross the road. “We should be at Dutchy's place anytime now. That's if these bloody tires last. His mother must have been a rhino. I reckon no man that strong can be human. He shoots a .570 nitro express, which is almost an artillery piece. Anyway, he's a damn fine professional hunter, and he knows Mozambique. More importantly, he gets on with the Renamo bandits.”
Sam closed his eyes. I forgot about the bandits, he thought. The lion hunt was the cause of a fight with his youngest wife. He remembered her lecturing him: “Mozambique is the home of devils. Bad things will happen if you go on this safari.”
“Woman, you're trying my patience.”
“I have dreamed about these things,” she said. “Tell Rigby you're too old to go. I love him as much as you do, but he wants to fight another war. I won't watch him get my husband killed. Don't tell me you're doing this for the little money he pays you.”
Twenty years ago, he would have beaten his wife for such insolence. A man becomes tolerant of a woman's words when he gets old. And he liked the feel of her smooth skin against him at night. His older wives would have been happy if he had beaten her. Men and women are not the same, he reflected, smiling.
“Baba, ugifuna a smoke?”
“I thought you quit smoking, Sam.”
“I'll stop again after we finish this hunt.”
The landscape bottomed out into a savanna or a bosveld, as the Afrikaners call it. The Lebombo Mountains appeared out of the afternoon haze. Rigby turned onto a washboard road and then crossed a wooden bridge spanning the Limpopo River. The other trucks followed him in a serpentine conga-line procession, zigzagging around the fallen mahogany trees crisscrossing the road. Elephants had pushed the trees over to feed on the succulent seed pods.
They drove into a meadow or vlei populated by umbrella acacias. The land sloped gently down to a narrow tree-lined river. They heard the chuckle of moving water coming from the river. A thatch-roofed sandstone house lay nestled under a large silver terminalia tree in the center of the clearing. There were racks of spiral and sickle shaped antelope horns over the windows. Two bleached elephant skulls marked the walkway to the house. The trucks scattered some clucking chickens. The man who walked around from behind the house was almost a giant. A cape of black hair covered his shoulders and chest. His bare feet were the size of boat paddles. Jan Bosshart or Dutchy looked fiendish without incisors. His wife looked like his twin. She suckled a child riding her hip. Two more children hid behind her. Her rump could have hidden more children. Her smile was also in need of dentures. Their African house-servant covered her mouth to hide her smile as is the custom in that part of Africa. She was also barefooted. Dutchy's wife barked at the woman in Afrikaans. The woman chased, caught and rung the necks of four scrawny guinea fowl and three even skinnier chickens.
“Hoe gaan dit met jou?” Jan Bosshart greeted Rigby in Afrikaans.
“I am good. And your wife and children?”
“Goed, dankie. Come, my friend, we wash up before we eat. Christ man, it's goed to see you,” he thundered, putting his hand on Rigby's shoulder.
Rigby's men got out of their truck to stretch. Before they could light their cigarettes, a Jack Russell terrier exploded out of the house. The black-and-brown spotted dog made a beeline for one man and latched on to his pant leg. Two other mongrel dogs yapped and barked, but didn't bite the terrified African. He managed to free himself and climb up on the truck's roof. The enraged terrier raced around the truck trying to find a way up onto the roof.
“Nee, Jocko, you little shit. Leave him,” Dutchy yelled, grabbing the growling terrier by the scruff of his neck. “My friend, when was the last time you wore those pants? Don't tell me. I will tell you. You wore them on a hunt. Was it a leopard or a lion hunt?”
“It was a leopard hunt,” the man answered.
“One of you, get him another pair of britches before my Jocko kills him.” The man changed his pants from the safety of the roof. When he tossed the old pants on the ground, Jocko cocked his leg and urinated on the pants. Contented, he jumped up on the same man he had harassed demanding his affection.
“I reckon Jocko is the best hunting dog in all of Zimbabwe. The fact that he hasn't been eaten proves it. If hyenas come around at night, he hides under my bed. If it's a lion or a leopard, he won't stop barking until I let him hide under my covers. Isn't that right, Jocko, my lion killer?” Dutchy said to his dog.
“What took Jocko's ear?” Rigby asked. “A bloody puff adder bit him. I think maybe he's learned his lesson about snakes. Jocko, tell them you've had your fill with snakes.”
The dog barked and nipped at Dutchy's heels. He motioned to his wife. “Come, woman, make us something to eat. We must make our plans for the lion hunt.”
Twin campfires illuminated the Bosshart homestead that night. The Africans tended a fire down by the river. A large, black iron pot of mealy-meal simmered on an open fire. Bats swooped down to feed on the insects attracted to the light. The men were tired from the long drive, but the palm wine lifted their spirits. Soon, singing and bouts of laughter erupted. Jocko lay next to the man he had attacked. Nightfall brought out the hyenas. Their giggling carried across the river. The cackling sent Jocko scampering to his master's side.
The mood around the other campfire was more somber as Dutchy outlined his plan for the hunt. “My friend, the lion hunting in Mozambique has changed. The old way of hanging meat from a tree to bait them no longer works.”
“What's happened to the lions?” Rigby asked.
“In Mozambique, we must use more effective methods.” Dutchy drew a map in the sand with a stick. “This is the Kruger National Game Park. It extends four hundred kilometers along the Mozambican border. For the last five years, Mozambican refugees have been crossing into South Africa. Some are cannabis smugglers, but most of them are looking for work.” He scratched lines in the sand showing the refugee border crossings, and then stuck his stick in the sand. “This is where we will find our lion. We do have a problem—these Mozambican lions have developed funny appetites.”
“What kind of funny appetites?” Rigby inquired.
“Renamo bandits poached out the buffalo and wildebeest. There was nothing left for the lions to feed on, so they started eating the refugees. In the old days, we used a tape recording of hyenas at a kill or the roars of a big male to bring them into shooting range. These lions have grown too clever to fall for our old tricks.” Dutchy sucked a chicken bone clean and handed it to Jocko. The little dog stood over it and growled at the mongrels.
“We only have two weeks to get Turner's lion. Do you think two weeks is enough time?” Rigby asked.
“Ja, two weeks is plenty. I scouted the river last week. The lions are as thick as flies on buffalo shit. Your client will take his lion. The trick is to avoid being eaten,” Dutchy answered and then laughed.
“Mother, show Rigby how we attract the lions,” Dutchy said, turning to his wife. Dutchy's wife turned on a tape recorder. It was a recording of a woman and a young child screaming. The sound quieted the men. Jocko started to whimper.
“It's horrible. Is that you?” Rigby asked, addressing Dutchy's wife.
“Ja, she's a fine actor, no? The lions cannot resist it. We must be very cautious, my friend.”
“I'll certainly drink to that.” Rigby clicked his beer bottle with Dutchy's. “Helen will skin me alive if I get myself eaten.”
***
They broke camp early the next morning. Dutchy couldn't squeeze into the cab of Rigby's truck; he grabbed Jocko and climbed into its bed. Both were sleeping by the time they reached the border.
The Zimbabwean border guards demanded bribes, which Rigby refused to pay. In the end, the guards relented and waved them through.
Rigby remarked that the roads in Mozambique made the roads in Zimbabwe look like a German autobahn. Five hours after crossing the border, they came to a barricade. Four raggedly dressed Africans with AK-47s draped over their shoulders walked out of the bushes. One man was missing a hand. Dutchy jumped out of the lead truck and walked forward to greet them. As he walked by, he whispered to Rigby, “Renamo banditos. I know this bunch. All they want is some of our food.”
Rigby continued to smile, but eased his rifle into his lap. “Sam, if the shit starts—remember to duck.”
“The devil with one hand is their leader. Shoot him first.” Sam whispered back.
“Precisely my thoughts. Just be ready.” His voice faded so that only Sam could hear him. “And how are you today, you sneaky-looking bastards?” he said, smiling.
Their leader greeted Dutchy in his native language. “Avuxen ku njihani?” he inquired politely. Dutchy answered him in Portuguese. “Ola, bom dia.”
The bandits laughed and touched Dutchy's massive arms. Dutchy nodded to reassure Rigby. Their one-handed leader swung his weapon down and stuck his head in the window. “Hello. How are you today?” he asked, trying his best English.
“Do we have some food for them?” Dutchy yelled. “They say they have not eaten in two days.” “Dutchy, ask them about the lions.”
“Ja, they say there are lions at the bottom of the valley. They can hear them roaring at night. They have been sleeping in the trees like baboons. This one says we should sleep in our trucks.” Dutchy put his hand on the man's shoulder. “My friend, I think he gives us good advice.”
“Come, Dutchy, let us leave this place before they turn my Matabele warriors into screaming women,” Rigby yelled, glancing back at his men, who were all grinning. When he opened the door, he made sure the bandits saw his .416. They moved closer to get a better look. “Such a fine weapon—you waste it on lions. Have you killed many with it?” one man asked. Another man walked behind the truck, but jumped back when Jocko tried to bite him.
“I've killed many things with this rifle.”
***
They made their camp on the Luvuvhu River. After the men collected hook-thorn bushes, they interlocked the scrub into a protective circle, known as a boma. At the end of the day, Rigby and Sam Mabota inspected the thorny barrier for gaps. Satisfied, they closed the entrance from the inside.
At first the night was peaceful, but then it started. A distant male called his females with a few resonating snorts. Dominant males warned other males. Females called their pride sisters to fresh kills. The bellowing got so loud it sounded like the lions had penetrated their boma.
Jocko was not amused. The dog whimpered and sought comfort from Dutchy, who pushed him away. The terrier nipped his hand. “Jocko, these men will think you're a sissy.” Dutchy reached down, picked the dog up and kissed him. He pushed Jocko under his blanket.
Croxford was exhausted, but he couldn't sleep. He shared a tent with Dutchy, whose whiskey-induced snoring was louder than the lions. Just before dawn, Rigby found refuge under a truck where Sam and the other men had slept. The tyranny of the night abated at first light. The mournful cooing of doves replaced the night sounds.
“Sam, could you find sleep?” Rigby asked, yawning. “Awa. Only death could bring sleep with the Dutchman's snoring. Let's look outside the boma for lion spoor.” When Dutchy walked up behind Sam and Rigby, they were inspecting some pugmarks. Sam picked at a pile of bloodied lion feces with a stick. The foul smelling heap contained hair and human teeth. The stench overloaded Jocko's olfactory system. The dog raced around marking the area with urine squirts. As he leaned in to check the scent under a mopani bush, Dutchy tossed a stick into the bush and snorted. The dog vaulted into his master's arms. When he laughed, Jocko growled.
“My brother, are there any males?” Rigby asked Sam, urinating with one hand while picking an errant piece of tobacco from his teeth with the other.
“Yebo, Baba, kubili.”
“How big?”
“Very big,” answered Sam.
“I reckon we should make our thorn-walls higher,” Rigby said, stooping down. He tried to span the lion track with his hand; the pugmark was bigger. Normal lions shun humans, but these lions are different, Rigby reasoned.
***
At midday, Rigby and Sam left the compound to pick up Max Turner. The road was so rutted even wallowing in four-wheel drive couldn't stop the truck from heading off in directions contrary to Rigby's efforts. After struggling for hours, they drove up behind two women and a skinny young girl walking on the road. They had knapsacks slung over their shoulders. The women started to run, but when they realized it was too late, they froze.
“My sisters, do not fear us,” Sam yelled in Afrikaans. The young girl looked scared and refused eye contact. She had a clubfoot and walked with the aid of a stick.
“Ladies, come ride with us,” said Rigby. “We need protection from the Renamo bandits. Although I must say, if you let our noisy truck sneak up on you, I doubt you can offer us much protection.” The two women laughed and the young girl giggled. They climbed into the back of the truck. Within seconds, the crippled girl was sleeping.
Sam learned they had walked from Maputo, a coastal town in Mozambique. They had been with a group of thirty refugees, but had split up into smaller groups hoping to sneak across the South African border. The women had endured bandits and wild animals, but what they feared the most was getting caught by the South African police.
They parked under an ebony tree. The men shared their lunch with the women. When Rigby saw how quickly they devoured the food, he insisted that he wasn't hungry. Sam cut and whittled a better walking stick for the crippled girl. When it was time to go, the women declined to ride with them. They explained they were afraid the truck might attract the attention of the border police. As the truck pulled away, the women yelled something, but their words were consumed by the straining engine.
“Walk with God, my sisters,” Sam yelled. One hour later, they arrived at the South African border crossing.
“Pra't jai enals?” the border guard asked Rigby.
“Yes, I speak English.”
“Did you see any kaffirs?” the guard inquired, looking at Sam. Sam stared back defiantly.
“We were stopped by bandits yesterday,” said Rigby.
“What about refugees?”
“We've seen no refugees. We're collecting our client at Sabu. We should be back here in two hours.”
“You're out of luck. This border crossing closes in one hour. There's no way you'll catch me out here after dark. Too many lions to suit me. See you bright and early. We open at 0600.”
“Right you are. See you at first light,” Rigby yelled.
“That white hyena turd is too foul for lions to eat,” Mabota said, as they drove away.
***
Sabu Safari Lodge was one of those luxury safari camps only the grotesquely rich could afford. Rigby set out to find Max Turner. Waiters wearing formal attire and red fezzes scurried along the walkways carrying silver trays of drinks and food.
Max Turner walked out of his chalet wearing a safari outfit complete with knee socks and desert boots. His Indiana Jones style hat was banded in zebra hide. He wore elephant hair bracelets on both wrists. Croxford bit his lip to keep from laughing. “Welcome to Africa, Max. You might be slightly overdressed for Mozambique.” Before Max could answer, Rigby's partner, Hansel Martin, walked up behind him.
“We have a problem. Mr. Turner has brought two guests,” Martin said.
Rigby saw Max's daughter-in-law standing in the doorway. “Max, this isn't what we agreed to. Mozambique is no place for a woman or your fucking buddy. No pun intended. This isn't gonna fly.”
“I didn't think there would be a problem. You wouldn't object to them staying here?”
“Of course not.”
“That's settled. Anything else?” Max sounded irritated.
“That covers it. We'll pick you up one hour before dawn. Tell your friends you'll see them in ten days.”
“I thought we agreed to two weeks.”
“The agreement was to get you a lion. Where we're going is crawling with lions. Getting you a lion in ten days won't be a problem.”
“Great. Sorry about the mix-up. What about dinner tonight?” Max asked.
“I'm afraid that's quite impossible. I pitched my tent down the road. These bloody hotel rates would force me to sell my farm. Remember, I need you ready to go at first light. We're in for a hell of a drive. Cheers, Max, see you in the morning.” As they walked away, Rigby remarked to Martin, “I'd rather eat hyena shit than have dinner with that asshole. I'm gonna need you to keep an eye on his friends. Turner's a snake. I'd like to get this safari over as quickly as possible.”
“Turner's woman is something else. I can't remember seeing a better-looking bird.”
“That woman's not his, she's—let's just say it's complicated. Do yourself a favor, stay the hell away from her.”
“Christ, Rigby, no need to get so huffy. I've never seen you so edgy.”
“I haven't slept a wink since I agreed to do this hunt. I wish I'd listened to my wife.” Rigby said goodnight to Martin and retreated to his tent.
***
Dawn peeked over the Lebombo Mountains as they arrived at the border post. There were two South African army trucks parked next to the Customs and Immigration building. One was a flatbed. Rigby saw what appeared to be bodies covered by a dark green tarp. “What's going on here?” he asked the border guard.
“Poor devils, three women raped and killed by bandits. Say, the kaffirs who stopped you. Was one missing a hand? Are you all right?”
Rigby felt dizzy. He paused before speaking. “Sorry. Yes, one was missing a hand. Are you sure it's the same bunch?” Rigby asked, handing him passports and papers.
“Quite. Preying on refugees is their pleasure. Wicked devils. Be careful, my friend,” the guard said.
The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) Page 5