Ivory Ghosts (7 page)

I stared at the tracks on the road. Was the ivory from the poached elephants I had seen during my flight being picked up and driven into Namibia at night? Or was another turf battle about to unfold between the Nigerians and the witch doctor? I turned north and followed the tracks, soothing myself with the idea that Gidean and the other rangers might just be out fishing.

Eli wouldn't want me poking around in
any
of their business, whether fishing for food
or
for bad guys. But I didn't think the others would mind me tagging along.

After three miles, the tracks suddenly veered off onto the floodplain, heading toward the river. I turned to follow them. Whoever it was, they couldn't have been far. The river was only about two hundred yards away.

I pulled off, checked my holster, and got out, continuing on foot until I could see a vehicle parked next to the river. It was the ministry vehicle.

I walked over to the vehicle, holding my hand on the butt of my revolver. There were no lights on. No signs of life.

I looked into the empty cab of the truck. No guns, either.

I stepped to the muddy river's edge to see fresh scrapes from the bottom of a boat. Must have been a ministry boat used for their patrols. I listened for the noise of a motorboat engine in the distance, but there was nothing but the occasional snort and splash of a hippo down the river a ways. Gidean had mentioned that they kept a boat right next to the station. Perhaps they kept a second one stashed up here near the border.

Suddenly, my neck was pulled violently backward as a hand gripped my mouth and something was pulled over my head, knocking my night-vision headband to the ground. I struggled to break free, but whoever it was had an iron grip. My head was completely covered in a hessian bag that smelled like rotting meat.

“What are you doing here?” The low, taut voice was definitely Eli's.

He turned my neck so sharply I wasn't sure if he was trying to break it. “Who are you?”

He hadn't recognized me. If he removed the bag, he'd see who I was. That was the easiest path forward.

I reached with my free hand to remove the bag, but my arm was snatched and twisted harshly behind my back. I stood frozen, stomach muscles tight.

“You Zambians think that our elephants are yours to kill?”

I shook my head and tried to scream the word
no,
but his hand was so tight on my mouth I couldn't make but a muffled sound.

“You came across the border illegally, didn't you?” He unholstered my pistol and threw it to the ground. “Tell your witch doctor we know what's going on. We've got Ernest as hostage.”

I was paralyzed with fear and gagging from the wretched stench.

There were other footsteps. And another voice. “What's happening?”

I was relieved to hear Gidean's voice. Surely, he would sort this out.

The sound of a whaler approached and Eli cursed. “Pull the bag.”

Gidean pulled the bag off my face and took a step back. “Catherine!” He was flabbergasted. “What are you doing here?”

Unmoved, Eli gripped my neck and lifted me off the ground. “Yes, what are you doing here?” His teeth were in my face. His breath smelled of violence.

The boat slowed down and was about to land.

Gidean stepped forward and whispered, “Eli, keep an eye on the boat. Natembo needs backup. I'll deal with Catherine.”

As Eli marched off, I rubbed my neck and mouth.

Gidean put a sympathetic hand on my shoulder and handed me my gun and night-vision goggles. “How did you get here?”

“I followed your tracks.” I caught my breath. “I'm so sorry.”

“Did you see anything?”

“No. Nothing. I just couldn't help noticing the tracks.”

“Did you see any footprints?”

I shook my head.

“Damn.”

“What happened?”

“We lost the witch doctor's henchman, Ernest.”

“You lost him? How?”

“Eli was interrogating him.”

“Did he say anything?”

“He was with the witch doctor the other night.”

“So, it
was
the witch doctor who killed those people?”

Gidean nodded. “He said someone else was with them. A driver. But when Eli pressed him to find out who it was, he jumped out of the boat.”

“And you think he's trying to escape on foot?”

Gidean shook his head. “Natembo dropped Eli on the bank to look for him, but he couldn't find him. We think he was taken by a croc.”

“What?”

“There's a big crocodile that lives on that turn in the river. He wasn't on the bank, and we saw the splash. We just wanted to confirm that there were no tracks on this side.”

I opened my mouth to ask more questions when the gunfire started.

“Go. You must leave quickly.” He pushed me urgently. “Now!”

I put my revolver back in its holster and ran, crouched, back to the car. I got in as my heart pounded inside my ears.

Dark shadows and quick movements preceded more gunshots. Then some muffled sounds. I fumbled with the night vision and took off in the dark, bumping down the dirt road.

After a torturous drive dodging spring hares on the road, I arrived at my dark barracks and stumbled up the stairs. I switched on my fluorescent light, put the kettle on, sprayed my arms with more repellent, and went out onto the porch.

I lit a candle and soothed myself by listening to the cacophony of frog calls surrounding me. I tried to focus on each kind of call until the shadows that the candle created became unnerving, making it impossible to see into the distance. I blew out the candle and my eyes adjusted to the night as the frogs continued to calm my jangled nerves. The kazoo calls stood out from the water droplet and chime calls at seemingly impossible volumes for such little tree frogs.

The kettle started to boil and I made tea, opened a can of vegetable curry, dumped it into the tiny pot from my mess kit, and walked back outside. Although this was one of the few canned meals that could be eaten cold, I needed something hot after consuming too many crackers and too much peanut butter over the last few days.

In between the frenzied bouts of frog calls, all I could hear was the insistent whine of mosquitoes as they approached my ear. I swatted them away as the frogs resumed their competition. I went inside to stir my food so it wouldn't burn. When it was warm enough to be considered almost hot, I carried it outside along with a spoon. I ate the creamy curried peas and potato and carrot chunks with relish.

At a sudden rustling noise in the bush, I whipped my head around. But there was nothing but darkness. The frog chorus continued as I resumed eating. There was the noise again. This time, it was much louder, and I turned on my night-vision goggles and looked into the bushes. Nothing but damp vegetation. I turned the scope off and closed my eyes.

Another rustling sound in the bush right in front of me snapped me back to full attention. I stood on the end of the porch and looked back and forth through my green grainy goggles but couldn't see anything.

Then something large and dark caught my eye at the edge of the drive, just behind the car. I panned over to see an enormous hippopotamus looking like a blimp held up by four short stumps. He was not happy to see me.

He flared his nostrils at me for some time before shuffling off. But he wasn't the one making the noise in the bushes. I knew I was psyching myself out and needed to go to bed. But the last thing I wanted was to be cooped up in that horrible dank little room wrapped in a mosquito net. As I braced myself for the thought of an icy shower first, I heard a faint noise over the floodplain that grew louder and louder. It was an airplane.

I ran out into the open road and looked up through the goggles and zoomed in, but the plane was too far away and moving too quickly for me to see any numbers. It sounded like a Cessna 182, and for a brief moment, I thought I saw a symbol near the tail—the Red Cross symbol.

Early Monday morning, a burst of urgent, demonic calls jolted me awake. In the branches of the sausage tree outside, a large troop of baboons were waking up. I had heard them squawk and caterwaul as they settled in the night before, but this sound was different. This was the sound of intense, life-threatening danger, with determined parents warding off the evil threat of a stalking leopard.

Bark! Hoo-ha!
The synchronized roaring and screeching pervaded the air, punctuated with a sick guttural moaning. I looked out the window screen and spotted the alpha male in his perch on a low branch, his gaze trained on the floodplain where the leopard must have been. Since my watch said five
A.M.
, I lay back down and fell asleep again.

I woke with a start at seven thirty, thinking about the plane that flew overhead the night before. I had to get to Katima to start asking more questions. And yet, considering what had just happened with the rangers, I probably needed to pay Baggs a visit first.

After a painfully cold shower, I caught my broken reflection in the shattered bathroom mirror. I leaned closer to peer at the fractals rimming my tired eyes. Despite my thinking that I was adjusting, I could see I wasn't. I brushed a long tangle of hair out of my face and pressed at the tiny crow's-feet at the corners of my eyes. In just a few days, I was starting to look as haggard as everyone else around at Susuwe.

I threw on a long skirt and blouse and headed out the door. My first stop would be Jon Baggs's office. Then I'd go to the Catholic mission to see what they knew about Red Cross activities in the region.

As I pulled out of the drive, I spotted Gidean standing on the road, looking like he was on his way to my barracks. I rolled down the window. “Good morning, Gidean. Listen, about last night. I'm really sorry. I should never have been out there.”

“Good morning.” Gidean smiled. “And not to worry. That never should have happened. I am very sorry for the mistake.”

“Well, it won't happen again.”

“It's not a problem, really.” Gidean smiled again.

“Did you find Ernest?”

Gidean shook his head. “No, but I'm here to deliver a message from your boss, Craig. He got through on the radio just now.”

“Oh, the radio works?”

“Just got it back in working order.” Gidean nodded. “My cousin fixed it and dropped it off on his way down to Windhoek.”

“Handy. And I'm glad Craig called because I've had trouble charging my satellite phone. What did he say?”

“He said that you are to meet with Nigel at nine. He will introduce you to some community members.”

“Oh, I completely forgot that the meeting was today. Can you remind who Nigel is?”

Gidean nodded. “He runs the Community Care program in the region. He's in charge of the game guard program. His office is just next to the post office in Kongola.”

“That's right, now I remember.”

Gidean hesitated. “Will you speak to any of the women in the village?”

“I'm not sure. Why do you ask?”

“The women know what's going on. The induna won't talk to us about this matter of poaching. He doesn't trust the government.”

“I see.”

“You see, Catherine, the women won't talk to us rangers, either. And they won't confide in a man. A man takes control—answering the questions for the women. It's too intimidating.”

I smiled, wondering exactly what he was getting at.

“Maybe you can spend some time with those women. Maybe they will tell you who is involved. Maybe they would be willing to give you evidence.”

“I will keep that in mind.”

“I think the women will like you.”

I smiled again. “Thanks, Gidean. I appreciate that.” I waved and drove off toward Kongola, feeling much better about the previous night.

The police gate was positioned at the entrance to Bwabwata National Park, gateway to the bustling East Caprivi, and the last stopping point before a hundred miles of forest. Though only a post office, a gas station, a
khuka
shop—the local shabeen—carrying the kind of nasty home-brewed beer that I learned in South Africa was almost more flies than beer, and the Community Care office, the place was a hub of activity. Any little bit of legitimate commerce in these locations led to many other kinds of commerce, just as it did at outposts outside Kruger.

There were the guys with the privately owned pickup trucks running a taxi service. There was the convenience shop attached to the gas station, selling greasy fried chicken and Portuguese sausage rolls. There were the wise guys in psychedelic shirts and bad sunglasses trying to make a deal—any kind of deal—including an offer I'd had of diamonds from Angola on my way back from the airstrip. They probably knew not to ask a white woman if she wanted to buy an elephant tusk, but no doubt, if a potential customer had the right look, ivory would be offered as well.

All this took place against a backdrop of throbbing, pulsing African music at all hours of the day and into the night if the beer was ready. With a fifty-liter drum of alcohol that was good for only four days, not much work got done when a batch was served up at ten cents a cup.

I pulled up to the Kongola Community Care office, where a tall, wiry dark-haired young man with a closely cropped beard was leaning against his white Land Rover smoking a pipe. The large British flag on the side of the vehicle reminded me that Craig had mentioned Nigel was British.

I turned off the Bug and approached the man. He looked me up and down, visibly impressed. I ignored his expression and shook his hand. “I'm Catherine Sohon.”

“Nigel Lofty.”

“So sorry I'm a little late.”

He tipped his sweat-stained slightly crooked cap and smiled through piercing blue eyes and smoke-stained teeth. “Right. No worries. Had to meet with the game guards anyway.”

This guy seemed like a caricature of a British foreign aid worker. Was he enjoying himself at my expense, or did he just seem too young to be smoking a pipe and carrying all this pomp? It was as if he was trying too hard to play the part.

He looked at the VW, smiled, took another puff of his pipe, and exhaled. “Those things do pretty well in deep sand, I hear.”

I nodded. “When it doesn't disappear into the potholes.”

“That's a problem around here.”

“But not something you have to worry about.” I nodded back at the Land Rover.

“Hell, it's nice!” He walked over and opened the passenger door for me. As I got in, he waved over one of the uniformed men. “Got us a meeting with the induna of Liadura Village,” he said to me. “Figured that would be your best introduction to the community.”

“Sounds good.”

A thin little man with a starched game-guard uniform walked over and stood dutifully next to the door. He was so drunk he could barely stand up. Dried crumbs of fermented grain sat at the corners of his mouth, and he reeked of alcohol. He had been at the local brew, but somehow his uniform still looked tidy.

“Christ, Finnius,” Nigel said. “It's nine thirty in the bloody morning.” Turning to me, he continued. “Ah, right. Catherine, this is the head game guard for the region, Finnius Mplanga.”

I nodded and held out my hand to greet Finnius. His breath almost made me cough, it was so strong. “Hello, Finnius. Nice to meet you.”

Finnius shook my hand, smiled weakly, and then hesitated—as if concerned about what impact my job would have on his.

Nigel waived at Finnius to get in the back as he turned the key, and the turbo diesel engine clucked to life. He slammed the steering wheel as he watched Finnius through the rearview mirror stumble into the back of the truck. “Bloody hell!”

I had to hold in a laugh at Finnius's earnest expression, as if he were confused at the stink that Nigel was making over his perfectly fine appearance, ironed uniform and all.

“Is he always like that?”

“To be fair, he's celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

“He stumbled upon the induna's son burying three tusks in his yard the other night.”

I wondered if he was referring to the tusks I had seen in Jon's office. “Is that a common occurrence around here?”

“Probably, but being stumbling drunk appears to have its advantages.” He laughed defiantly.

I wasn't sure how to respond, so I just smiled.

Nigel pulled out onto the white dusty track. As he accelerated, he stopped for an old man dressed in a tired suit, carrying a pair of worn dress shoes, which I assumed he felt were too valuable to wear until he got to his destination. The old man climbed onto the back of the truck, nodding his thanks through the rearview mirror as Nigel pulled away.

We passed a series of small villages, all made of reed and thatch, interrupted every once in a while by a brick school or clinic with a corrugated iron roof along the road. After that, there were long stretches of scrappy crops—
mahango,
sorghum, or mealies. There were patches of clay soil where deep groves of tall mopane trees looked like enchanted forests guarded by termite castles, multitudes of cicadas blaring as we passed.

Although I appreciated the absence of small talk, it didn't feel right not asking a few questions. “How long have you been working in this area?”

“Hell, hard to believe it's been two years now.”

“You must really know it well, then.”

“Place is a den of thieves. The only thing that changes is the players.” He sucked on his pipe. “They never stick around long enough to get bloody caught.” He smiled. “How about you? What brought you here?”

“The elephants.”

“Anything in particular about them?”

I shrugged. “I just really like them.”

“You came all the way to this godforsaken place just because”—he tossed his hand—“you
like
them?”

I laughed. “Sorry. Didn't mean to be so vague. I've always liked big game.” I shrugged. “Ever since I had summer jobs in Yellowstone as a college student and fell in love with elk and the noise of their bugling—so unexpected. And the wolves, of course. Loved it so much, I ended up getting my Ph.D. up there.”

“So, big game is the draw?”

“You could say that. But after a while, I had to fly around a lot so I got a pilot's license. And that became the draw. When I got the chance to go to Africa, I took it.”

“Where did you go?”

“Kruger. Got to fly a couple of the Kruger elephant censuses. That was really fun. And then I got to do some behavior work with the bulls.”

“Did it take a long time to get your license?”

“It wasn't a big deal to get my license in Wyoming. And flying in the West was great. But it cost a lot to keep up my hours. I hadn't thought of the practicalities; I just went for the experience because my mentor at the time trained pilots and enjoyed putting the time in with me, hoping I'd take over some of the surveillance flying for Yellowstone one day. When I got to Kruger, they were down a census pilot, and I was in the right place at the right time to get the training I needed for census flying.”

“That's how you ended up here?”

“Pretty much. I'll also do other things as they come up. Looking at elephant mortalities—counting carcasses if there are any that we find from the census. Maybe have a look at how they died.”

“We have stacks of blank elephant mortality forms lying around.” Nigel looked at me carefully. “Are you tracking the ivory at all?”

“I know WIA is interested in how much ivory gets to China from here.”

“The local activity must be pretty low compared to other places in Africa, right?”

“Not necessarily. They have good evidence that increasing amounts of the ivory smuggled into China passes through the Caprivi.”

“Poaching for ivory isn't a problem in the Caprivi. There just aren't that many poaching cases. Fortunately, the threat of prison is a real deterrent. The price isn't worth the risk.”

“That's changing fast, apparently. The growing demand in China is driving up the price. And what about trafficking? You just said the place is full of thieves.”

“Amateurs. It's all low-volume stuff.”

“Even the witch doctor?”

“He's more interested in human bollock than he is in tusks.”

“That's not what the DNA evidence suggests.”

Nigel gave me a look of genuine surprise. “No?”

“There was a recent large shipment into Guangzhou via Singapore and Vietnam made up of elephants from Zambia and Angola. My boss thinks they may be using Caprivi as a corridor.”

Nigel sank deep in thought. After a lengthy silence, he finally responded softly, “Does Jon Baggs know about all this?”

“He doesn't believe anything coming out of an American's mouth, it seems.”

He laughed and his shoulders dropped. “He'll warm up. He does that to all the newcomers.”

“Pretty intimidating.”

“Like I said, he'll adapt.” He suddenly changed the subject. “Heard you were the first one to witness the witch doctor's handiwork the other day.”

I nodded, not wanting to go into it.

“He doesn't shy away from drama.”

“What does he do with the brain, anyway?”

“Not sure about human brains, but crocodile brains are very bad juju. They burn them whenever possible.”

“So, is that the case with human brains too?”

“Not sure. Maybe for virility? You know, he has the audacity to call himself a fertility specialist.”

“A fertility specialist?”

“Get this. He'll sleep with a guy's wife for a week, charge him twenty head of cattle, and pronounce the man cured. I tell you, people lose their heads when it comes to witchcraft.”

“Literally,” I couldn't help noting.

Nigel laughed. “We're looking forward to having you as our pilot.”