Ivory Ghosts (6 page)

The Beetle bounced down the eastern floodplain road, heading to Hippo Lodge. Not having been to the lodge, I wasn't sure I could find it after dark, so I was racing the sun.

I turned in at a large sign with an arrow pointing to a long, low thatched building overlooking the river. After parking in the gravel lot, I stepped into the dark breezy receiving area. A horizontal shaft of sunlight beamed through the open far wall that faced the river.

“Hello?” I called into the empty room.

A tall dark man stepped out of a corner wearing a khaki collared shirt with “Hippo Lodge” embroidered on the left breast. “Good afternoon.” He bowed slightly. “Here for early dinner?”

Startled at his sudden appearance, I hesitated before responding. “Oh, hello. No, thank you. Just a drink, thanks.”

“Ah, sundowners.” The man led me outside and sat me down at a table under a thatched gazebo that hovered over the brown swirling water. I had a splendid unobstructed view up and down the vast river. The sun was low, lighting the river in a fiery orange.

I ordered a Lemon Twist and then stared at the vortex of the great swollen Zambezi. The chocolate river sucked at the legs of the gazebo as it passed, seemingly bent on swallowing the large tree islands in the middle of the river. A glossy ibis flew by in the breathless air, giving its signature
hau di dau
to announce another lazy late afternoon along the mighty Zambezi. It was all business as usual around here, as if the elephant carnage that I had just witnessed across the border had happened worlds away.

The waiter returned and put the soda down next to a sticky glass. I thanked him and refused the glass. I snapped the top of the chilled can and took a sip of the sugary, bitter bubbly drink. The sweetness of a large swallow erased my burgeoning headache. My stomach was only now starting to feel more settled after the flight.

I gulped down the rest of the drink and called to the waiter. “Is Mr. Alvares here?”

Alvares emerged from behind a well-manicured reed-and-thatch bar off to the side. He squinted into the setting sun. “Ah, thought I recognized you. Glad you popped around.”

I stood up. “Catherine Sohon.” I tried to seem casual. “You mentioned that I might stop by today, and it was on my way, so I thought I'd check it out.”

“Came by for the rump, I suspect?”

“Maybe next time.” I looked around. “Lovely place you have, though.” I blew out a long steady breath, trying to control the waver that I felt mounting in my voice. “Bet you never get tired of the view.”

“Thank you. I do appreciate it. Took over running the place about a year ago, and if it were up to me, I'd never leave.”

“I see the attraction.”

“Have to keep reminding myself that someone else owns the place even though he's hardly here. Only comes around some weekends. Hard to keep track, particularly now that he does all his own flying. I used to be his pilot, you see.”

“Interesting.”

In a small town, it wouldn't take long for him to find out that I was a pilot as well, but I didn't know how much small talk was enough to be polite before asking to use the radio. Trying not to seem too abrupt, I asked, “Listen, my cellphone broke on the drive up from South Africa. I really need to make a call to South Africa. Is there any chance I could borrow your radio?”

Alvares looked uncertain. “We could try. This is coming into the best time of day for reception. I haven't had much luck reaching the exchange in Walvis Bay this week, though.”

“Would you mind if I tried?”

“By all means.” Alvares led me behind the bar and into a dark office and switched the light on. He opened up a door at the back of the office, revealing a private radio room. “The boss likes privacy when he makes his calls.”

Although excited to have privacy, even if I closed the door, I'd have to be careful of who might be on the radio. A smartphone with a satellite phone backup was going to be essential.

I was able to get through to the exchange operator in Walvis Bay and gave her Craig's phone number in Johannesburg. As I waited for the connection, I tried to collect myself. I had to sound calm.

I heard Craig's voice as the phone picked up. My stomach tightened. “Hello, Craig.”

“Catherine, how are you? Where are you?”

“I'm at a fishing camp,” I said curtly. “Place called Hippo Lodge.”

“Ah, yes, excellent place. Understand they have a big tiger fish competition every year.” It sounded like he was about to launch into a story but hesitated, probably realizing that he sounded a little too chipper for my tone. “Right. Good. But what happened to your cellphone?”

“Broken.”

“A fine welcome.”

“Yes, well, I hope to get another on Monday. A satellite backup would be good. There's a lot of areas with no cell coverage in the region.”

“I'm one step ahead of you there.”

“Glad to hear it.” I thought about the ivory chip sitting next to my bed. “I have some data for you.”

“I look forward to seeing it.”

I stalled. “And my clearance?”

“Ah, yes, sorry about that. Turned out to be some delays, but it should be there now. I had my secretary fax it up.”

“Good. So it will go to Baggs directly?”

“Yes, to his office. When the fax is back online.”

“And you've spoken with him about me?”

“Yes, we had a chat yesterday. I understand you had just been in his office in the morning.”

“And?”

“Look, I'll be honest, he's an ornery bugger. But he's the best we've got up there. He'll soften up. We need him on this. And he's committed.”

“It was hard to tell.”

“I did warn you that this would be no picnic. You must be careful what you say.”

“I just didn't expect that kind of introduction.”

“I'll chat with him again and get things sorted now that he'll have your clearance.”

“Sounds good.”

Craig lowered his voice. “There's been some new leads on the Dollar Store. We're hopeful that something will turn up from your activities over the next week.”

“That's actually why I'm calling you now.”

“Is it?”

“I need to learn more about Red Cross activities in the region. And witchcraft.”

“That's a tall order.”

“Can you arrange clearance for the Angolan border?”

“That will take some time. You are clear for Zambia, though.”

“How soon for Angola?”

“Difficult to say with the postwar fallout. Why, any activity?”

“Yes.
A lot
of activity.”

“Photos?”

“Not yet.”

“GPS fix?”

“In the vicinity.”

“Nice.”

“Listen, I'm thinking about doing some volunteer work.”

“Think you'll have time for volunteer work? Maybe wait and see how things look in a few weeks.”

It was frustrating to have to talk on the open airways like this, so we had to somewhat converse in code. “I think it will be quite beneficial. Can you check on registered Red Cross missions based out of Katima?”

“Okay, I'll put the guys on it.”

I was hoping that Craig was reading between my sentences—that he really didn't think I actually wanted to volunteer for the Red Cross. “Great.”

“Catherine, now that I have you on the line, I got you a postbox at the Kongola post office just across the river from Susuwe. Know it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Box number 248. I'll be sending things there. In the meantime, I've sent a courier up with some essentials.”

“Can the same courier deliver you some samples?”

“Will send another for that. And I'm going to make several appointments for you. Got one with Nigel Lofty on Monday. He's a Brit who heads the Community Care program in the region.”

The reception suddenly got worse and I was focused on the mention of a phone. “When do you think the sat phone will arrive?”

“Cheers, Catherine, go well.” I wondered if he didn't hear me, but then realized that he sounded suddenly rushed, as if someone had entered his office.

“Okay, good-bye then.”

As I headed out of the bar, Alvares put down the glass he was cleaning. “Did you come right with the comms?”

“Yes, I did. Thank you so much.”

“Great. Must be pretty quiet over there at Susuwe. Don't be a stranger.” Alvares smiled.

“Thanks. I'll keep that in mind.”

“Go well, Catherine.”

I drove back to the station in the dark, trying to avoid all the cattle that were sitting on the road outside each of the main village areas. While I weaved through them, the horns of the large bulls were so big that, even sitting down, they were practically as tall as my car.

I couldn't help wanting to drive up to the Angolan border the next day, to see if evidence of the poaching camp could be seen from the cutline. But the poachers would most likely be heavily armed, not something I was prepared for on my own. Maybe I could convince the rangers to take a drive with me.

I sat on my porch and watched elephants pour out of the forest and onto the floodplain in the soft pink light of the late afternoon. I tried to enjoy the feeling of a lazy Sunday from the vantage of my barracks porch, despite what was happening to elephants just seven miles up the road over the border.

Young males let out a few deafening screams as they often did in the excitement of an impending reunion. I picked up my binoculars and started counting. After counting thirty elephants, I checked the time and went inside to get my field notebook from the bedroom. This was the perfect time to try out the night-vision goggles and Nikon digital camera that Craig had somehow arranged to have sitting on the porch steps for me when I returned from our radio conversation the night before, along with an iridium satellite phone, various connectors, and a small printer, the size of a 3-hole punch. He must have gotten one of the rangers to drop it off.

I put on long pants and socks to thwart the mosquitoes and then buckled on my holster, grabbed my backpack and the keys from the counter, and headed back outside. I picked up my binoculars again to shove them into the backpack and got into the car.

Not wanting to scare the elephants, I drove slowly downwind of them. The Beetle wallowed through the tall red and orange grass of the floodplain until I reached the water. I settled down at a backwater, one pool down from the action with the elephants still in view.

A large group of hippos objected to my presence on the bank by waving their open mouths at me from the middle of the pool, exposing their enormous canines in threat. A few belted out sharp bellows and loud bursts of air through their nostrils. After deciding that I didn't pose any immediate danger, they quieted down with only a puff of air here and an ear twitch there and a territorial
hum, hum, hum, hum, hum, snort.
All was fairly quiet except for the whine of mosquitoes and the rumbling of elephants.

I grabbed my backpack and climbed up on my roof rack. I watched the elephants in the radiant light, taking pictures, counting them, and, out of habit, taking notes on their behavior. I spotted an older female that was pushing young males away from her drinking spot at a deep elbow in the river.

I drew the ear notches, tusk shape, and tail-hair pattern of the largest one that appeared to be the matriarch, and estimated ages and sexes of the others, eyeballing back heights relative to hers. I noted other distinctive characteristic features within the group until another much larger group showed up at sunset, making it impossible to keep track.

The new group burst onto the scene with jubilant fanfare silhouetted against a rapidly sinking red sun. I stopped taking pictures and picked up my low-light binoculars to watch as they proceeded to engage in an elaborate ceremony—the older females roaring, rumbling, urinating, and defecating, while standing in a rigid line. They held their heads high with their trunks on the ground and ears flapping in this mysterious primal ritual. After a few minutes, they relaxed their shoulders and proceeded to exchange tactile greetings by placing their trunks in one another's mouths, akin to a handshake.

The dust rose from the commotion of even more arrivals, and more roaring and bellowing, the calls seeming to attract more and more extended families to join in the party. The smell of elephant permeated the air—a combination of tanned leather, dung, and something musty sweet.

It was getting hard to see now with the sun completely gone and the heaviness of dusk setting in. It was just getting dark enough to experiment with the night-vision goggles Craig sent up with the camera, so I dug them out of the backpack and turned them on. The waxing moon was just a sliver in the sky, but any bit of light helped improve the resolution of the image that was generated by gathering ambient light and intensifying it.

Light-intensifying technology in night-vision gear had improved since I had used it several years back to track moose in Yellowstone. Either that or Craig had invested a substantial portion of his budget to get me top-of-the-line technology. In Kruger someone had gotten permission to use the same technology our military used in the Iraq War for rhino patrols. This device seemed just as good. It worked like goggles and as an attachment to my camera so I could take pictures at night.

There was a sudden bellow as a couple of young bulls burst through the bush just next to me, one of them almost colliding with the Bug and practically knocking me off my observation post as they hurried to the water. They roared so loudly it sounded as if they were being attacked by lions, or at least pursued by them. I assumed they were just excited about their reunion, but nevertheless I scanned the tall grass behind me. No imminent sign of predators.

But lions were expert at sneaking up on the unsuspecting and, having had a lioness in my vicinity on the way in, I no longer felt comfortable so low to the ground. I moved back inside the car as soon as the elephants settled down.

Most of the best elephant socializing happens just after sunset, which I rarely got to see in Kruger. Things were so regulated there that it was only on special occasions that I got to be out in a remote place like this after dark. It was hard to justify being out late to measure how much of a particular tree species the elephants were consuming. And rarely did those observations coincide with a large elephant greeting ceremony.

When the opening tumult of greeting the new relatives was over, the elephants again relaxed and began the sequence of elephantine “handshakes” by placing their trunks in others' mouths. Little ones to older ones, sisters, aunts, cousins—they were all getting in on the action. The young bulls then proceeded to engage in sparring matches up and down the river, mucking up the water for everyone else, but no one seemed to care. I enjoyed the sounds of drinking and the splashing of water escaping many thirsty trunks curling up to mouths in a row, looking like a giant sea monster in the night.

A blood-curdling scream emanated from the bank a little ways upstream. I tried to see between the elephant legs to the cause of the upset, when suddenly scores of elephants ran past me on either side, several of them looming over me through the windshield as they sidestepped the car in a hurried retreat, leaving a small group clustered in a panic on the far bank.

A few of the younger elephants in the group were running back and forth with their ears straight out, confused, reaching their trunks up in the air, as if searching for clues on the winds. Two larger females were trying to reach something in the river with their trunks. At first, I didn't see anything in the water and couldn't figure out what they were doing.

A small, black, snakelike object stuck up out of the water and went back under. The elephants were trying to grab it. There were splashes and more screams and bellows coming from the water. Then, I realized what was happening. A calf had fallen in and the bank was so steep that it wasn't able to climb out.

Finally, the two females got down on their knees and were able to wrap their trunks around the backside of the baby and pulled it up onto the bank. The dripping wet baby stood silently, sucking its trunk as the others came over and touched it with their trunks as they rumbled and flapped their ears.

I was so engrossed in what was happening that I hadn't realized how badly I was getting bitten by mosquitoes. The long pants and socks helped, but the effect of the DEET was wearing off my arms and neck. I needed to leave, but I waited until the elephants left before I packed up my things and made my way back to the barracks in the dark. It was too dark not to turn on my headlights, but I didn't want to spoil the night, so I drove back using my night vision.

Through the night-vision screen, the bent grass I had driven on was lighter in color than that surrounding it, allowing me to follow my path exactly. I wanted to avoid driving into a warthog hole or over an acacia seedling, the thorns of which would have given me another flat tire. I wound through the tall grass and back to the main dirt road in the dark.

On the road, I could see fresh tire tracks going in the opposite direction, toward the Angolan border. I didn't remember hearing a vehicle pass. The only thing up there was the border—and poachers.