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Authors: Lawrence Anthony

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BOOK: Babylon's Ark
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A good friend and extremely courageous old man, Obie Mthethwa, said it was too dangerous for a white person to go to the
induna
's
kraal
—homestead—alone and volunteered to come with me. As Obie was a senior counselor to the chief and well respected in the area, his presence would be invaluable.
Obie also knew who the assassins were by reputation. “
Tsotsis
,” he told me, using the Zulu pejorative for
thugs.
“These are bad men.”
That afternoon we drove deep into rural Zululand on rutted four-wheel-drive tracks to the headman's home.
In Zulu tradition you never enter a
kraal
unless invited. You stand at the gate near the
isibaya,
cattle enclosure, and shout your name and the nature of your business. Then the host will invite you in at his leisure.
It was a picturesque village with traditional round thatched huts neatly set out on top of a hill. People were finishing their day, herd boys bringing in cattle, mothers calling in children, everyone preparing to retire for the night. The smell of the evening meals wafted across the village.
Obie and I were made to wait almost an hour and it was dark before we were allowed into the
kraal
. That was an ominous sign.
We were then escorted to the
isishayamthetho,
the largest thatch-and-clay hut, traditionally used for important business.
Shadows danced on the walls from a single candle flame that illuminated the simple furnishings, a table and flimsy wooden chairs. I noticed immediately the
induna
was alone. This was extremely unusual, as advisers or counselors always accompany an
induna.
We had seen some of them outside while we waited.
Where were they now? What was it he didn't want them to hear?
Then, as is Zulu protocol, we started a lengthy greeting process asking about each other 's health, the health of immediate families, and the weather. Only after that is it deemed polite to state the actual nature of your business.
While all this was going on, I maneuvered the back of my chair firmly against the wall so no one could sneak behind me. I had no illusions about what was going to happen and I wanted to face whatever danger came at me headfirst.
Speaking in Zulu, I explained that the police had told me there was a contract on my life and the hit men hired to do the killing came from the
induna
's tribe.
“Hau!”
exclaimed the
induna
loudly, the Zulu expression of surprise. It couldn't be his people, he said. They held me in esteem. Was I not the man who was going to bring work for rural people with the Royal Zulu project? Wasn't I myself a white Zulu? Weren't we old neighbors?
I agreed but said my information was impeccable, coming from top policemen who said the people wanting to kill me believed by so doing they could grab the Royal Zulu land themselves. This would not be the case, I stressed, as the trust land belonged to several other tribes as well.
Again the
induna
expressed astonishment and I was starting to wonder if perhaps the police's information had been wrong. The
induna
was either innocent or a virtuoso liar.
At that moment we heard a car pull up outside, followed by the traditional shout of identification. About ten minutes later four men walked in. They had come to report to their
induna.
The
induna
told them to sit and they squatted on the floor on
their haunches, keeping their heads lower than their boss's as a Zulu token of respect.
As they settled down Obie grabbed my arm and urgently whispered into my ear in English, “These are the
tsotsis,
the killers—these are the men whose names the police gave us.”
At first they did not recognize Obie and me in the murky candlelight. But as their eyes grew accustomed to the dim shadows the startled looks on their faces betrayed them.
I was wearing a bulky bush jacket and in my pocket was a cocked 9mm pistol. My hand slid around the butt. I gently eased off the safety catch and pointed the pistol through the jacket straight at the closest killer 's belly.
Obie was now understandably alarmed. Again he whispered in my ear: “This situation is very dangerous. We have to get out.”
But there was no way out. I continued speaking, looking directly at the
induna,
hand on my gun. I said the police had given me names of the would-be assassins and the names were the same as those of the four men who had just walked in. Did this mean the
induna
was in cahoots with the killers?
The accusation was purposefully blunt and sparked an instant heated reaction. The contract killers sprang up and started shouting at me.
I jumped up to face them. Obie also quickly stood up, squared his shoulders, and glared at the assassins.
“
Thula msindu
—stop this noise,” he commanded loudly with firm authority. “This is the
induna
's house. He must speak. You must show respect.”
The
induna
slowly stood up and then vehemently denied I was on any hit list, but there was no doubting his attitude had radically changed. He was now petulantly on the back foot, accusing me of calling him a liar—a heinous slur in Zulu culture.
“Why is it that these men who the police know want to kill me walk so easily into your house?” I persisted. “Does this not seem suspicious?
“And what's more,” I added, “the police know I have come to talk to you. My visit here has been fully reported to them and they await our return. If Obie Mthethwa or I do not get back home this night, they will know what happened here. They will find you and you will suffer the full consequences of your actions.”
I knew it was unlikely I would be able to shoot my way out, but I certainly would take a couple of these cutthroats with me. Perhaps that would also give Obie a chance to make a break for it.
I focused on the candle, just a stride away on the floor. If anything started I planned to kick it over and plunge the room into darkness. The
induna
was also looking at the candle, no doubt harboring the exact same thoughts. He then looked at me.
We both knew why.
The
induna
broke his stare first. I could see he was now unnerved—particularly as he believed the police knew we were at his kraal. He had been completely caught out by the arrival of the assassins and the fact that we knew who they were; all his denials before were obvious lies.
The contract killers looked at their boss, unsure of what to do. The four of them could easily overpower Obie and me by weight of numbers, but as experienced gunmen they also knew I had a primed pistol underneath my jacket. If they went for their guns, I would get the first shot off, straight at the first killer. It was now up to their boss what he wanted to do.
The standoff was tense and silent. Nobody moved.
A minute ticked by. Then another.
I finally provided the
induna
with a way out. Looking him straight in the eye, I demanded he give his word of honor that I was in no danger from any members of the tribe. I emphasized that there was confusion and I was not necessarily accusing him of anything, but I wanted a solemn declaration that I remained under the protection of both him and his tribal chief, as was the civic right of any resident in the area.
The
induna
quickly agreed, grabbing the escape route with both
hands. He continued to protest his innocence but gave his assurance I would not be harmed by any of his tribesmen.
That was all I needed. The main aim of the meeting had been achieved. The
induna
knew his plan was blown and he would be a fool to go back on his word of honor. He also knew he would be the prime suspect if anything ever happened to me—whether he was guilty or not.
As a parting shot I said our discussion would be reported to his chief at the next council meeting.
We then left. As we got into the car, Obie let out a large
whoosh
of air from deep in his belly. We had just stared death in the face, and I looked at the old man with absolute gratitude. He had the courage of a lion and had put his life on the line for the purest motive of all; friendship.
Driving home through the dark African bush, Obie—a natural actor—recounted the story over and again in the minutest detail, mimicking accents and actions with deadly accuracy. I laughed delightedly, adrenaline still fizzing with the manic relief of survival. I knew Obie would memorize the story with meticulous precision and it would be told and retold around the night fires of his homestead, woven into the rich fabric of his tribe's folklore: of how he and his white friend had called the bluff of one of the most powerful headmen in the area—and lived to tell the tale.
Fortunately, the problem with the
induna
resolved itself permanently a year or so later when his own tribe removed him for incompetence. His replacement today is fully supportive of the Royal Zulu project.
But what that brush with death did teach me was that the best way to deal with any threat was to face it down directly.
It was a lesson that would serve me well in Baghdad.
 
 
IN IRAQ, the tidal wave of looting would eventually kick-start Baghdad's post-Saddam economy in a quirky new direction. For
amid all the anarchy, booming businesses soon started flourishing in the form of pavement “loot” shops. Goods previously out of reach to all but the wealthiest were now on sale at ludicrously discounted prices.
From a city in which before you could get nothing there suddenly was a plethora. At markets such as those on Ramadan Street, looted food, medical equipment, sportswear, and other miscellany changed hands for a fraction of even production cost. The mind boggled at the variety of the display; from top-range Nike sneakers selling for twelve thousand dinars, or about four dollars, to stainless-steel surgical tools costing just five hundred dinars, or sixteen cents.
More ominously, the going rate for Kalashnikov assault rifle magazines filled with thirty bullets was thirty-five thousand dinars, about twelve dollars. There was no shortage of AKs now, but I had become comfortable with my 9mm.
You could even pick up passbooks looted from the Defense Ministry showing that you had completed your compulsory military service, something not to be sneezed at if you didn't want to spend several years of your life marching in the desert sun. A passbook would set you back seventeen cents.
Unfortunately, included in the bargain-buying spree were wild animals. Several hundred had been taken from the Baghdad Zoo alone, while the figure stolen from underground menageries that proliferated in some of the less savory city suburbs will never be known.
Black-market trade in exotic creatures has always been a problem in the Middle East. Sadly, in the squalid pavement stalls you could purchase, for a pittance, an emaciated, terrified bear cub or a pelican so weak it could not lift its beak.
I knew one day we would have to find those animals. Once we had the zoo up and running, I vowed, we would go for the private menageries where cruelty and barbarism was a way of life.
But this next step happened sooner than I ever expected. The next day soldiers at the hotel told me they had more animals for
me. Saddam and his son Uday had been avid wildlife collectors, and their “pets” had been found starving in the palaces.
That the animals—including lions—were still alive was great news. But again the awful mental balance sheet flashed in my mind. The debits and credits of the project were frighteningly mismatched; I had only just arrived, and we were struggling to feed and water the few animals we had in the main zoo.
How the hell were we going to cope with more?
U
DAY HUSSEIN was nicknamed the “Lion Cub” by his sycophantic followers, which is a grievous slur on lions. No wild beast would demean itself by killing as casually as Uday did.
He was Saddam's eldest son and originally groomed to take over from his father. If possible, Uday was even more feared than Saddam himself, secretly loathed for his uncontrollably savage temper. His aptitude for gratuitous violence was the stuff of legends, repeated only in whispers by a brutalized people.
His mother, Sajida, who was also Saddam's first cousin, was head of Baghdad's elite private school Al Kharkh Al Namouthajiya, which Uday naturally attended. His classmates recall that although he rarely—if ever—did any work, he always came first. What a surprise.
After he left school, he graduated from the University of Baghdad's College of Engineering with an average mark of 98.5 percent, despite barely opening a book. But one may be forgiven for thinking
this was not in any measure due to an abnormally high IQ. Instead, top marks were attained by the simple expedient of assaulting tutors who failed to rig results.
His sterling grades then paved the way for his appointment as minister of youth, which he used as a springboard to interfere in any facet of Iraqi life that took his fancy, particularly soccer, Iraq's national sport. Players who did not score or prevent goals being scored against them were regularly jailed on Uday's whim. When they returned, their heads were shaved as a mark of their “national disgrace.” In 1999 one of Iraq's terrified soccer stars, Sharar Haydar Mohammad al-Hadithi, managed to flee the country and told how he had often been vigorously tortured if Uday considered his game to be below par.
The next year, after Iraq's 4—1defeat in the quarterfinals of the Asia Cup, goalkeeper Hashim Hassan and defender Abdul Jaber and striker Qathan Chither were beaten and whipped for three days by Uday's bodyguards. On the fourth day they saw the error of their ways and promised not to let in so many goals in future.
When Uday was not inspiring his soccer players, his favorite pastime was trawling discotheques in Baghdad's elite hotels, where his bodyguards would seize women for him. They were taken either to a hotel room or to his riverside “love nest” and raped.
On one occasion Uday walked into a wedding ceremony, grabbed the bride, and raped her in a side room. The groom later committed suicide.
Uday also often was seen strolling around the Baghdad University campus “inviting” attractive female students to his parties. They, too, would often be abused.
Then there's the story of the time Uday and his friends were at the Jadriyah Hunting Club in Baghdad, where the country's most popular singer, Kathem Saher, was performing. Uday was enraged when he saw women queuing up to ask for autographs and fawning over the handsome entertainer instead of himself. So he called Saher to his table, put his foot up, and told the singer to autograph the sole of his shoe. This presented Saher with a chilling dilemma,
one that could cost him his life. He either insulted Uday by signing a lowly thing such as a shoe or insulted him by not signing it.
Saher signed the shoe, silently praying that would be considered the lesser insult. That night he fled into exile.
Uday's domestic life was equally unsavory. His wife, Saja, who was his first cousin, left him after six months, fleeing to Switzerland when he viciously beat her up one time too many.
His father regarded these excesses as boyish high jinks until Uday killed Hanna Jajjou, Saddam's personal valet and food taster. Uday was blind drunk at the time and accused Jajjou of procuring women for his father, breaking up the marriage to Uday's mother. He then proceeded to bludgeon Jajjou to death.
This tested even Saddam's patience to its edge. Uday was sentenced to a year in jail and afterward sent into exile in Geneva. That didn't last long, as the Swiss authorities soon expelled him for laundering money. He returned to Baghdad, and although it appeared his father had forgiven him, it was now apparent Qusay, his younger brother by two years, was the anointed one.
In 1996 an attempt on Uday's life was made as he drove around the fashionable Al Mansur district. Gunmen following his car opened fire, and although Uday survived, he was partially paralyzed and could only walk with difficulty.
Most Iraqis believe Saddam was behind the assassination attempt, because no one was ever charged with the crime. This was more than mere speculation. Under the Hussein regime, culprits for any high-profile crime were always found and savagely punished. Whether they were guilty or not was a moot point.
Despite his disabilities, Uday's reign of terror continued. Much of his power stemmed from his control of a large chunk of Iraq's media. His rag called
Babel
was disingenuously described as Iraq's only independent newspaper—it was anything but—and Uday used this as a platform to branch out into highly lucrative projects involving TV, transport, hotels, and food deals. His communications empire included Iraq's most-listened-to radio station, Voice of Iraq FM, and Youth TV, both of which adopted a snappy Western
style of presentation, as opposed to the dull style of the state-owned channels.
But Uday's true power base was his leadership of the Sadamyoun, teenagers brainwashed in special schools to worship Saddam as a cult figure. Uday turned it into a militia of about twenty-five thousand members, and it was these fedayeen who fought the most fanatically in Basra, Fallujah, and Al Zawra Park.
In short, Uday was a savage, promiscuous psychopath. He considered himself a “lion” among men, and so what better pets to keep?
 
 
IT'S NOT KNOWN when Uday fled his palace, but it was probably around the same time the rapidly advancing American forces took Baghdad's international airport. When the special forces stormed the complex a few days later, it was deserted.
Well, almost. Bemused SF soldiers cautiously entering an unkempt patch of garden to the right of a massive entrance hall (where a decapitated statue of Saddam Hussein greeted them) came across a thick steel pen. It was about fifty yards long, thirty yards wide, and the fences were at least a story high.
In the cage, crouching together under the shade of a spikytrunked palm tree, were three lions. And judging by their prolonged snarling, they were not happy.
However, Uday's lions, a male and two females, were luckier than their counterparts at the Baghdad Zoo, as food was immediately available. The soldiers found some sheep, emaciated to the point of death, locked in an enclosure nearby, and these unfortunate creatures were shot and thrown into the giant cats' cage, where they were gobbled up within minutes. Soldiers also fed the lions blackbucks they found corralled in another pen. Blackbuck, a small indigenous antelope, is considered a delicacy and was also apparently Saddam's favorite meal. A herd was kept at the palace to feed the Iraqi aristocracy.
It was soon discovered that the loudest-growling lioness was heavily pregnant. Perhaps that was why she was more belligerent
than the others, and the soldiers named her Xena after the fantasy warrior princess. The second female they named Heather; and the magnificently large male, Brutus.
The Special Forces, or Green Berets, as they are often known, soon adopted these three fierce felines as their mascots. So Husham and I decided to leave them where they were rather than move them to the zoo's enclosures. Their pen was not cramped by Iraqi wildlife standards. They had a sandy outside area among a few shady palm trees to stretch their limbs, and as the palace was close to the zoo, it was logistically simple to ferry food over each day. Indeed, they were being well cared for by the soldiers, who even had a notice up on the metal fence proclaiming: SPECIAL FORCES LIONS. DON'T MESS WITH THEM.
This was advice to heed. Uday's cats were far more bellicose than the listless lions in the zoo. When I first approached them, they leaped up to the fence, baring their wickedly pointed cuspids with curled lips. They seemed to have no fear of humans, possibly for reasons that we would only learn of later.
Not only were the lions considered SF mascots, but to my incredible good fortune, the American soldiers took a liking to me as well. I was known as the lion man of Africa who had come thousands of miles to rescue these cats. This reputation was unwittingly a major coup for the zoo. When you're accepted and backed by the crack Green Berets it certainly helps your street credibility.
The American Special Forces are arguably the best warriors in the world—I say “arguably” only because the British Special Air Service also claims that title. Suffice it to say that these superb soldiers are exemplary of George Orwell's pithy observation on the fragility of democracy: “Good people sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.”
Thankfully for us, the Green Berets took us under their wing. They were among the few able to travel anywhere in the ransacked city at will, and when they had the time they sometimes used their awesome survival skills to forage essential food and supplies for
the zoo. They did this purely as private initiative. As far as they were concerned, a crazy conservationist trying to rescue animals in a war zone couldn't be all that bad.
However, it was soon discovered that Uday's pride wasn't the only one in the vast Hussein royal residence complex that snaked along the banks of the muddy Tigris. The next day SF soldiers led Husham and me into Uday's palace through a maze of unimaginably opulent rooms and halls as high as cathedrals to a quadrangular garden. There in the middle was another fenced enclosure.
This was a different situation altogether, and as I entered the compound my stomach heaved at the rotten stench of ripe decay. The source was easy to identify: the decomposing carcass of an adult lioness stiffly sprawled near the fence, smothered with a seething shroud of buzzing flies.
Also in the enclosure were two cubs, about three months old. They came to the fence as I approached and, to my astonishment, I noticed a pair of skeletal dogs with them—a German shepherd and a Labrador retriever, with ribs jutting out like coat hangers. The hounds eyed me warily as they circled the cubs. The pen otherwise seemed deserted, so I opened the gate and walked in.
The gate clicked closed behind me. I had walked about twenty yards into the center of the enclosure when something roused in a dark corner … something getting up. It was a young male lion.
In the shadows there was another movement. Another lion. And from the opposite direction, barely visible in the shade, two more started padding toward me.
Shit! How many more were there? For a brief instant a terrifying thought jolted through my head; this was how the biblical Daniel must have felt in the lions' den.
I quickly assessed the situation. There I was in a closed cage with four starving meat eaters. There were not many leisurely options open.
I knew it was potentially fatal to turn and flee, for that almost always triggers an instant charge. The safest bet was to retreat slowly and not make eye contact. If you stare at a dangerous wild animal, it
can interpret this as a threat and the eye contact may prompt an attack. A mellow backing off was always the best way to withdraw.
But it wasn't easy being mellow just now. Instead, I judged the distance and, believing I could make it, recklessly turned and fled for my life, yanking the cage door open with a strength I never knew I had.
Fortunately, the lions hadn't charged. Perhaps they were too starved and listless to muster the energy to give chase.
There was no explanation why the starving lions had not already killed and eaten the dogs. We guessed it was because the animals had huddled together through so much terror during the bombing raids that they had bonded in a way only nature could fathom, forging some mystical affinity that transcended the torment of hunger. Indeed, even in their sapped state, the two dogs were nuzzling and cuddling the cubs—testimony that nature is not always red in tooth and claw.
I decided that we would have to relocate these lions—along with two cheetahs cooped in an adjourning pen—to the Baghdad Zoo as soon as possible. The emaciated animals were in far worse condition than the pride being cared for by the Special Forces, and their cages were rank beyond belief.
But how to move them all?
We had enough drugs to tranquilize just one animal. That left us with the extremely dangerous dilemma of confronting three others face-to-face inside the enclosures. And as the agitated youngsters were almost as big as cougars, some serious persuasion was going to be needed.
Lions have a savage reputation, and to the uninitiated they are probably the most fearsome of all wild animals. This reputation is rooted more in folklore than truth, and I, along with other wildlife veterans whom I know, would much rather come up unexpectedly on a lion in the bush than a black rhino or a big male buffalo in a reed bed. In fact, a startled bush pig is more likely to do you serious harm.
Like anything else, once a person has some understanding of
lion behavior, they can be relatively predictable. In the wild they can spend up to twenty lethargic hours a day sleeping and resting, as they only hunt every three days or so, and generally want to be left alone to get on with their lives.
BOOK: Babylon's Ark
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