Ivory Ghosts (8 page)

“Who have you used before?”

“We always used Dr. Geldenhuis or his crony, Alvares, but now apparently he's too busy to fly for other people.”

“Too busy doing what?”

Nigel turned down a narrow track. “Not sure exactly. Tourism maybe.”

“Interesting.”

“So why the Caprivi? There must have been a lot of places to go as a pilot.”

“I like the fact that there are so many borders in such a remote area. Makes the flying more difficult, but the elephant dynamics along borders are more interesting.”

“What kind of dynamics?”

“Patterns of elephant movements across Africa are heavily affected by borders. I'd like to think that elephants didn't have to be impacted by our politics.”

“Ah, so you're a fan of Peace Parks?”

“Yes, but I know it won't be easy to develop international reserves between countries that have such different economies. Mozambique and Angola have such potential, but after thirty years of war, it's going to be a challenge.”

“Yes, the elephants seem to know that Angola is troubled.” He pulled at his beard in thought. “Nice, hey. What will you do after the census then?”

“Whatever's needed. Follow up on carcasses that we see. Make sure reporting on mortalities is up-to-date.”

“So, are you for or against the trade?”

“I'm trying to save elephants, not get involved in the politics.”

“The neutral scientist.” He shrugged. “Interesting approach. I assumed you couldn't get hired in such a position in this country if you weren't pro-trade.”

“Let's hope that's a reflection of open minds.” I examined Nigel's profile. His look seemed too manicured to want to be in such an outpost, despite the bushy flair. “What about you? What brought you here?”

Nigel laughed. “Nothing quite so noble, trust me.”

“I'd hardly call what I do noble, but anyway, what then?”

“Escaping my past.”

I had to give that a nod. “Aren't we all.”

“I don't know. Unless you're not telling me your full story, it doesn't sound like you are escaping anything. Sounds like you're pursuing a dream.”

“To me, that's a kind of escape.”

“I'll give you that.”

“Would I be prying to ask what you were escaping from?”

“My dad was a drinker. And a gambler. He gambled away an inheritance that we all had come to expect. I grew up thinking that my life was set on a certain trajectory. Titles, foxhunts, and the like. But things changed, and all that disappeared overnight. I was forced to look at life differently. Did a little theater for a while. Enjoyed the role-playing. But hanging out with the impoverished theater crowd got old.”

“Wow. That would be quite an adjustment.”

“In the end, it was the best thing that could have happened to me. But at the time I couldn't see it that way. I had a dark couple of years. I became a real rotter.”

“Sounds like a good purge.”

Nigel scratched his head under his cap and readjusted it. “That's one way to look at it.” He slowed, turned a corner, and puttered down a nondescript dirt track. He straddled some deep potholes, but the Land Rover stayed relatively level as it clucked along.

“Impressive shocks.”

“Suppose it handles a bit better than a VW.”

I laughed. “Definitely.”

We passed a long brick building with windows that had no glass. A group of small schoolchildren in uniforms ran behind the vehicle and laughed.
“Makua, makua!”
they called out as we passed.

“What's
makua
?”

“A white person.”

“Oh.” I nodded.

Nigel pointed to the school flagpole that had a pair of pants hanging from it. “See those pants?”

“Yes. What are they doing there?”

“Schoolteacher from the eastern floodplain. They shot him in the leg as a warning.”

“What do you mean?”

“Somehow, the Subia get all the teaching positions in the region, and the others resent it. When tribal tensions heat up, this is usually where it starts. In the schoolyard.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“At least that one got away alive.”

Nigel pulled up to a small reed compound—the induna's kraal. A frail, dust-covered old man waited on a stool outside the sagging wall, watching our approach. The man Nigel had picked up on the road jumped off the back of the truck. He held his shoes in his arm as he clapped one hand on top of the other in thanks.

“Go well, Mr. Mazinga.”

The barefoot man smiled and clapped again before walking off to his destination. I took note of his suit and asked, “Is he another headman?”

“He's the chairman of this conservancy.”

“Interesting.”

“The conservancy is actually doing bloody well.” Nigel turned off the clucking diesel beast, and we got out. “Many of the others have so much infighting they can't get anything done.”

“Musuhili, mudella.”
Nigel knelt down and faced the elderly man, clapping one hand on top of the other, using the reverent term for old man,
mudella,
as the man clapped weakly, mouthing his greeting in return. “How is the induna today?”

Finnius interpreted the Yeye language for Nigel. “He says that the induna is not feeling all right.”

“Malaria?”

The old man nodded.

Nigel winced in sympathy. “Oh, hell.”

The old man mumbled again weakly.

“He asks you to come back in a few days,” Finnius explained.

“Christ,” Nigel mumbled under his breath, and then spoke up. “Right. Thursday then?”

The man nodded. “But only if you get his son out of prison.”

“I am not an attorney.”

“He was framed. He is innocent and must be released.”

Nigel bowed his head. “I will certainly look into this matter.”

Everyone nodded their good-byes, and Nigel took a minute to reload his pipe. “Sorry about that, Catherine. The schedule of this place runs around seasonal diseases, beer batches, and funerals. It's particularly slow in the wet season. All of my game guards are shivering under blankets with malaria.”

“Oh, that's fine, really.” I tried not to sound disappointed, even though every day mattered. And given what I had seen over the border, I was eager to look for information anywhere I could. “Just nice to get out and see what the village life is like.”

“Reeds, thatch, and disease. Looks like you've had a pretty thorough safari.”

I thought back to what the induna said about his son. “Do you believe the induna? Do you think his son was set up?''

Nigel shrugged. “Could very well be. However, the sons of local politicians often think they're invincible and get themselves into trouble. I'll make some inquiries.”

“It doesn't sound like you believe him.”

“Hard to say. Will I see you in town tomorrow?”

“Maybe I'll stop in on Jon.”

“He's up in Lusaka.”

“Lusaka? What's up there?”

“Other than HIV and worse thieves than we have here?”

“Yes, other than that?”

“He's pursuing the Zambian witch doctor—the slippery bugger that he is. The scaly anteater apparently has something in its scales to exorcise demons from possessed women.”

“Seriously?”

“Tragic, really. But at least since the pangolin is on the red list, it has more legal protection than the African elephant, and Jon can get more traction in making a case against him.”

“Pangolin—that's the scaly anteater, right?”

Nigel nodded. “The witch doctor seems to have a corner on the market.” He smiled. “Must have to do a lot of exorcisms.”

I was about to say something about the witch doctor's henchman escaping the previous night and then remembered that that wasn't my information to tell. Nigel had been so disarming compared with Baggs that I had to be all the more careful about what I said because it was so easy to talk to him.

I shifted in my seat, pretending to be lost in thought about something unrelated. The sudden distance between us left me thinking about how to make use of the rest of the day. There was still time to pay the Catholic mission a visit.

“Do you know anything about the Catholic mission?”

“Just that it's near the fish farm in town and is run by Father Sebuku. Know him?”

I shook my head. “I was thinking about volunteering for their Red Cross missions.”

I couldn't help noticing a sideways glance from Nigel. “He'd be the man to speak to.”

“Don't tell me you also think I'm here thinking I can save Africa?” I asked.

Nigel laughed. “No, Catherine, no one can save Africa.”

“You're sounding more like Baggs than I'd hoped.”

“Sorry, he's a pretty influential chap.”

“I can see that.”

“As for saving Africans, the Red Cross has put a lot of effort into the HIV problem and humanitarian aid, which is bloody encouraging.”

“That's good to hear.” All I could think about was the Red Cross plane at the poaching camp in Angola, and then flying overhead just after Ernest was thought to have been eaten by a crocodile. There had to be a good explanation for a Red Cross airplane being at these sites.

When I pulled up in front of the tidy, well-shaded, and manicured brick building of the mission, I was greeted by a line of uniformed children practicing a song in three-part harmony. The melody and sincerity of the children were compelling, and the high and low notes striking. The lyrics went on about community and walking down to the river together in the hopes that God would meet them there. The teacher nodded in greeting to me as I passed the procession and knocked on the front door of the mission.

A man dressed in black robes opened the door. “Hello, madam, how can I assist you?”

“Hello. Sorry to disturb you, but I'm looking for a Father Sebuku.”

The man nodded. “That would be me.”

I held out my hand and shook his. “I'm Catherine Sohon. I believe Craig Phipps from WIA got ahold of you to tell you I might stop by?”

Father Sebuku seemed to stiffen a bit. “Oh yes, of course. Do come in.” He held a hand past him for me to enter the building.

“Craig said you are from the Congo?” I was led into a reception area with surprisingly new and comfortable-looking white leather couches that seemed out of place in an environment where everything was covered in the ubiquitous orange sands of the Kalahari dune system.

“That's right.”

I looked around. “Nice place.” It must have taken a lot of energy to keep orange dust off the white leather and teak tile flooring in a room with floor-to-ceiling louvered windows.

Father Sebuku put his hand out and gestured toward a couch. “Please, have a seat.”

I melted into the supple leather—most probably Italian, or at least tanned by someone with European tanning skills. “How long have you been in the Caprivi?”

Father Sebuku sat down and sighed. “Oh, a little over a year now. Came down to manage the HIV program at the hospital. Shame how the problem just doesn't seem to be getting any better here.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“
Howe,
this issue of promiscuity is killing our people. Much more education is needed to build an understanding and get rid of superstitions.”

“I thought that the antiretrovirals had turned things around.”

“About five years ago, this was true. And the epidemic was minimized. But now, there are other issues. People are not taking the medications correctly. There are transport problems getting access to tests and treatment. The men are refusing to get tested. And the education just isn't there for prevention. Sexually transmitted diseases are making the problem worse. We need an open dialogue in the communities and in the schools. That's the only way I can see the possibility for real change.”

“I see.” I sat back. “Is the Red Cross involved in helping to deliver supplies for HIV?”

“Yes, yes, they have been a big help.” The priest nodded and looked me up and down. “Would you like some tea, Ms. Sohon?”

“Oh no, I don't want to bother you.”

Father Sebuku stood up. “It's no trouble at all, really. I'll tell the kitchen staff.” He walked into the hallway and turned back. “Milk and sugar?”

I nodded. “Sure, thanks.”

When he was far enough down the hall, I stood up and walked around the room. There were various photos of opening ceremonies, children in traditional beaded skirts singing, a handshake with a minister here and there and even one with the president. Father Sebuku had been busy in the year that he'd been in town.

I looked up to the distinctive sound of a small aircraft taking off somewhere behind the mission. I had no reason to be suspicious, but I couldn't help thinking that Father Sebuku had asked if I wanted tea as a way to excuse himself to go get rid of an airplane—which meant passengers and or cargo he didn't want me to see.

The priest returned with a silver tea set and a plate of gingersnaps. “There we are.” He placed the tray on the small round coffee table between us and proceeded to pour a drop of milk in the bottom of my cup and then tea. He held up a sugar cube. “One or two?”

“Just one, thank you.” I watched him stir the cup with a teaspoon and focused on his fingers. “I was thinking about volunteering for the Red Cross.”

Father Sebuku stopped stirring, placed the teaspoon down carefully, and forced a smile. “Volunteering?”

“Yes, you see, I'm a pilot and I was hoping you could use an extra plane for all the supplies you need to move around.”

“Well, that's a very generous offer, but you see, we don't manage Red Cross activities here. We simply offer to do some of the deliveries as needed. We don't have any control over who does the work outside this mission. The whole program is run out of Lusaka in Zambia. We are just lucky to be on the list of recipients.”

“Oh, I see.” I hadn't expected volunteering to be so tricky. “Can I be put on a list when you need an extra pilot?”

“That won't be necessary. At least not for now. You see, the Red Cross hasn't been delivering supplies for some months now. We'll only have one more delivery from Lusaka in a day or so, and the doctor will take care of that.”

“The doctor?” I asked, remembering that Nigel had mentioned a doctor, too. “What doctor is that?”

“Dr. Geldenhuis.”

“He works here, in Katima?”

“Yes, that's right. He works at the hospital but has a private office, behind the deli, that he just opened. Best doctor in town if you are ever in need. But, best to see him at his office and not at Katima Hospital. I'm sure you've been told to stay away from that place. So unfortunate. A death trap, really.”

I didn't want to seem too nosy, but couldn't resist. “Is that whose plane just took off?”

Father Sebuku hesitated.

“The one I heard taking off behind the mission? Was that Dr. Geldenhuis?”

Father Sebuku seemed to be piecing things together in his mind, as if trying to censor himself.

“I'm a pilot, you see, so I can't help noticing these things.” I could see I was making him increasingly uncomfortable, so I spoke quickly. “And it's a nuisance sometimes because I always have to challenge myself to guess exactly what kind of airplane it is that I hear. Was it a Cessna 172—or a Piper Cub, maybe? Didn't sound like enough horsepower for a 182.”

Father Sebuku squinted at me and then burst out in a nervous laughter. “Impressive.” He shook his head. “Most impressive. Yes, it was a Piper Cub. A minister from the Seventh-Day Adventist church was just visiting from Lusaka. I had to see him off.” He poured his tea and seemed to loosen up a bit. “They have been very generous with their donations to the HIV program. He came to tell me that we will be able to pick up new test kits next week. In time for the national testing day.”

“Has there been any Red Cross activity in Angola?” I sipped my tea.

“Not by our mission. I think that the Red Cross is still trying to work out a relationship there. It's been very difficult to negotiate humanitarian efforts after decades of war. Last I heard they were going to start with transistor radios.” He held the plate of cookies for me. “You understand.”

I accepted a cookie and ate it thoughtfully, enjoying the spike of ginger in my mouth. “Of course.”

Father Sebuku looked at me carefully. “You seem troubled by something.”

I shook my head quickly. “It's nothing. I just wanted to offer some help, that's all.” I finished my tea and stood up. “Thank you so much for your time.”

“I will be sure to let you know if we can make use of your offer in the future. Perhaps when the doctor's schedule has a conflict.”

“I would appreciate that. Thanks so much.” I shook his hand and left, uncertain of what to make of my visit, but Dr. Geldenhuis was next on my list. First thing the next morning.