Red Earth (2 page)

Chapter 2

Themba Nyathi felt ill.

Health-wise, he knew he was perfectly fine. He had checked his pulse rate against the second hand of his cheap Chinese watch, and had inspected the inside of his mouth and throat in the cracked mirror in the school bathroom. He'd even had his friend, Bongi, hold the back of his hand against his forehead to see if he had a temperature.

‘You're fine.' Bongi had laughed at him, good-naturedly. ‘Maybe you've got something else on your mind.'

Themba had frowned in the hallway as they bustled their way out into the hot, humid Zululand morning. It was always hot in Mtubatuba. It was hot and dry during the winter, and hot and wet in the summer. But the sun and water brought life and it sprang up everywhere, in the rich green grasses, in the sugar cane in the fields, in the trees in the bush and the animals who chose the lush, wet summer to give birth.

Themba was more aware of the world around him than he'd been at any other point in his seventeen years, and he had good reason to appreciate the natural environment. It may very well have saved his life. He'd explained this theory to Lerato, the new girl at school, how his recently discovered love of the bush had helped him come to terms with some terrible things that had happened in his life. He had neglected, however, to tell Lerato that some of those bad experiences were of his own making. This omission, he was now sure, was what was making him feel sick.

‘Hey, you're always reading that book between classes, Themba,' she had said to him during the morning break.

Themba had looked up. Lerato Dlamini was the talk of the school. She was beautiful, intelligent, and the word was that her father was very wealthy, a former ANC member of parliament who owned a trucking company and two cane farms.

The smart guys, the bad guys, the football players, every boy in school in fact, were all vying for Lerato's attention, but she affected a haughty air. Themba liked the word ‘haughty', having recently discovered it, and tried to use it whenever possible. It made her seem unattainable, and that only increased her attraction.

Themba blinked. ‘Excuse, me?' His two words were punctuated with a cough as though his response threatened to choke him.

Lerato looked down at him, like a giraffe whose attention has been piqued by some little creature below her. ‘That book. Animals. Why are you so interested in that stuff?'

Themba had licked his lips and then looked at the cover of his book, as if only just now discovering what it was about. ‘It's … it's not only animals. It's … it's birds and snakes, and, and, even some trees and plants.'

Lerato had laughed out loud, for real. ‘Oh, well
that
makes it all right then. I just
love
snakes and trees.'

Themba did not know why she was teasing him, but all of a sudden it didn't matter. The important thing was that she knew he existed and, even better, she was talking to him – even if she was ridiculing him. ‘Did you know
Inkwazi
, the African fish eagle, mates for life?'

Her eyes widened.

Idiot
, Themba said to himself. He'd regurgitated the last piece of information he'd read from his field guide and the implications of what he'd said pumped through his body like a black mamba's venom. He felt his body start to stiffen with paralysis.

‘That's really nice.' Lerato set her rucksack full of books on the ground and sat down on the wooden bench next to him. ‘I never thought of birds falling in love and getting married.'

Themba had been bracing himself for another jibe. Perhaps as a defence mechanism his ears were shutting down, because Lerato sounded like she was talking to him underwater. But he picked up something of what she said. ‘Nice?' he croaked.

‘Yes, nice.'

He had dared to turn his head a little, to look at her beautiful face, and to his surprise he saw she was smiling at him, but not in a mocking way. She had said something about love, hadn't she?

Themba felt blood forcing its way past the coma-inducing poison in his veins. Feeling returned to his fingertips – he wiggled them surreptitiously to make sure he was still alive – and a switch tripped in his brain. ‘When it comes to animals, birds and other wildlife, we have to be careful of anthropomorphism, which means –'

‘Ascribing human qualities to animals – I've heard the word before,' Lerato said.

‘Sorry.' He was impressed. Like ‘haughty', he'd thought of ‘anthropomorphism' as one of his personal words. He was happy to share it with Lerato, though, more than happy. ‘But, yes, it is “nice” to think of two creatures spending their whole lives together, and if the fish eagles were human we'd probably put that down to love.'

She laughed again. ‘You're funny.'

He felt the paralysis creeping back. Even if she was just making fun of him, he didn't want her to leave. ‘Male and female steenboks, little antelope, also sort of live together, sharing the same territory.'

‘Serious? I didn't know there was this much monogamy in the world.'

Just watching her lips move as she formed the words, and catching sight of her perfect, even white teeth when she smiled, brought the life back to him, made him glad to be alive. Now all he had to do was think of something witty to say, to keep her there, next to him. But he couldn't.

‘What about lions?' Lerato had asked, filling the chasm of silence that had opened between them in just three seconds.

Themba exhaled, then closed his mouth, not wanting her to notice his relief. ‘Oh, no, lions don't mate for life, far from it. Lionesses will mate with several different males during the course of their lives, depending on which males have taken over the pride. Males come and go. As they get older they're challenged by young males for control of the pride.'

Lerato laughed again. She laughed a lot. ‘Gangsta.'

Themba felt like she might be mocking him again, but to his surprise, Lerato reached out and put a hand on his forearm. It felt like an electric shock. ‘You've seen lions for real, right? In the wild, not in a zoo?'

He'd nodded his head. ‘Yes, in the Hluhluwe–iMfolozi Park. It was during my training as a youth rhino guard.'

‘I remember, you went and lived there, in the bush, for a month.' Lerato couldn't hide her incredulity. ‘Are you mad?'

It had been Themba's turn to laugh. ‘Yes, it was a month, how did you know?'

‘I was at the talk you gave to the school a few weeks ago.'

Themba felt an acute flush of hot embarrassment. ‘You listened to my talk.'

She rocked her head from side to side. ‘Well, a little bit of it.'

Themba had been encouraged by Mike Dunn, the coordinator of the month-long course, to find a forum where he could address people about what he'd learned, and Themba had reluctantly asked the school principal for permission. To Themba's horror, the head of the school had agreed and he'd found himself addressing more than four hundred students one sweltering Monday morning. He had stumbled through his written speech and been angered to see some of the older boys and girls talking while he delivered it. The younger students, however, had seemed interested in his stories, particularly the one about the lion.

‘You were in a tent, I remember you saying,' said Lerato, ‘and you could hear two lions walking around you in the middle of the night. You said it sounded like they were purring, but, like, really loud. You must have been
terrified
.'

She remembered!
Themba felt his heart swell. ‘It wasn't that bad. The main thing our instructors drilled into us was to keep our tents zipped up and to stay very quiet. It wasn't easy.' In truth, Themba had been shaking in his sleeping bag, absolutely petrified once his tent-mate, Julius, peeked out the window of the tent and saw the outlines of the two massive lionesses. Themba had thought he would die for sure. Julius had suggested they make a run for it, to a minibus van parked at the campsite; this had galvanised Themba into action, hissing furiously to his friend not to even think of doing something so stupid.

‘Serious?' said Lerato.

‘You have to remember that lions hunt by sight and sound, not smell. They're like house cats chasing a mouse or a gecko. If their prey is running, then they will chase it, and there is no way a human can outrun a lion.'

Lerato sagged a little. ‘I've never seen a lion, not even in a zoo.'

‘I'll show you one.' The words had tumbled out of Themba's mouth before he'd even thought about how he might do that. He had no car, no money, and no means of getting Lerato to the national park.

‘Oh yeah? How are you going to do that?' She had seen right through him.

‘I'll find a way.'

‘Well, good luck with that. My dad wouldn't let me go anywhere with you anyway – not with any boy, I mean.' At that moment Lerato's phone had begun to play a rap tune. ‘Speaking of my dad, just let me get this. I called him to see if he can come pick me up now.'

It was an odd day at school. Their teachers had just called an impromptu strike over wages and school was finishing before lunch. Themba walked to and from school, seven kilometres each way, but Lerato's dad dropped her at school every morning and collected her each afternoon, in a shiny new black BMW.

She had answered the phone, stood and walked away to talk to her father. Themba had felt like a piece of him had been chopped off as she left, even though she was standing just a few metres away.

‘What? No, I understand. OK. There's someone who can help. He's a good guy, Dad, honest. No, Dad, he's not like other boys, he's kinda nice. He's totally not the sort of guy who would try anything, trust me, please. Here, you can talk to him.'

Themba looked up at Lerato as she returned to his side. He didn't know if he'd heard right. ‘What is it?' he mouthed to her.

She lowered her phone. ‘My dad can't come pick me up or send his driver because he has some business meeting he needs to attend. It's urgent and he can't get out of it. He's very protective of me. I have to get a taxi home, but he's paranoid something will happen to me. Here.' She thrust the phone into his hand.

‘Hello?' Themba had said tentatively.

‘My daughter says you can be trusted, is that correct?' the deep voice on the phone said, no preamble, no greeting.

‘Um. Yes. Yes, sir.'

‘Listen carefully to me, boy. Do you know who I am?'

Themba swallowed. ‘Yes, sir. Mr Bandile Dlamini.' He wasn't sure what else to say, so added, ‘a very important man.'

‘I don't need your flattery, I need your help. If my daughter is harmed in any way, trips over, stubs her toe or has a hair out of place, I will make it my business to hurt you. Do you understand me?'

Themba understood the soft, menacing tone perfectly. ‘Yes, sir.'

‘Put my daughter back on the line.'

Lerato had reassured her father that all would be fine, and that Themba would see her home safe. Lerato's mathematics teacher was the last to leave the school and she had stayed back to explain something to Lerato, her favourite student. Now Themba was waiting, feeling sick to his stomach with apprehension, and maybe something else.

‘I'm not hanging around any longer,' Bongi said.

‘OK, fine. See you tomorrow,' Themba replied.

Bongi punched him in the arm. ‘Man, you've got it bad.'

‘I do not.' Even as he said the words, Themba knew they were a lie.

Bongi walked away, waving his hand in the air without looking back. Themba looked at his shoes. The toes were scuffed. He licked a finger and wiped them, then rubbed each on the backs of his trouser legs. The shoes didn't look much better; there was no disguising the fact that he was poor. He sighed. Lerato's father might be happy for him to shepherd his daughter home, but he would never allow Themba to take her out on a date or anything like that.

‘Hi. I'm done.'

Lerato's voice was more melodious than any bushveld bird he had heard. His heart felt like there was an invisible hand wrapped around it, squeezing.

‘OK,' he croaked. ‘Let's go.'

As he walked out the gates to the road to where they would pick up a minibus taxi, with the prettiest girl in school by his side, Themba felt like the luckiest boy alive. Part of him felt a little miffed that Lerato had told her father he could be trusted because he was some kind of harmless nerd, as opposed to the other boys who strutted loud and proud in front of her to try and gain her attention. But he consoled himself with the fact that she hadn't suggested anyone else to escort her. His days of pretending to be a tough guy were through. Even though the taxi would be packed with a dozen or more people it would be like a limousine compared to his normal daily commute. He looked up to the sky to say a quick, quiet prayer of thanks, and noticed a helicopter.

*

Bandile Dlamini hoped his daughter would be all right. Since his wife, Siphokazi, had died in a car crash two years earlier, he had been paranoid about Lerato's safety. They had wanted more children, but Siphokazi had been unable.

‘Mona market,' he said to his driver.

‘Yes, boss. The deal is on?'

‘Yes.'

Located near Hlabisa, to the west of Hluhluwe–iMfolozi Park, the Mona market was a place where animal products and various other sources of
muti
– traditional medicines – were traded, legally and illegally.

In the boot of the BMW was a bag full of several hundred thousand rand. He wiped his palms on the fabric of his tailored suit pants. He wasn't really going to a business meeting, as he had told his daughter.

He was going to the market to buy three rhino horns taken from animals illegally poached in KwaZulu-Natal's national parks.

Chapter 3

Mike Dunn stopped his Land Rover Defender on the side of the road. He reached into the back and took the gun case from the floor, unzipped it and removed his .375 hunting rifle.

His office was the bush and much of his time was spent in Big Five country, among lion, leopard, buffalo, rhino and elephant. He carried the Brno rifle for protection, and while he was outside the nearby Hluhluwe–iMfolozi Park he didn't dare leave the rifle in the truck while he was gone from it. No one would be mad enough to steal a Defender, but a heavy-bore hunting rifle was highly sought after by rhino poachers or the criminal gun dealers who supplied them.

Mike smelled the carcass before he saw it. The sky was clear and there was no noise around him save for the
swish-swish
of his canvas gaiters, a protection against ticks, as he strode through the long grass of the uncultivated field. Not a breath of wind blew. His khaki shirt was soon sticking to him.

He was ready for the sight that would match the terrible smell. The stench was like an invisible wall, one he couldn't pass through. With each step he moved deeper into it, became part of it. Mike was no stranger to death. He could see it now, a trident of white ribs sticking up above the grass, and sound had come to the scene in the form of the hum of gorging blowflies.

Mike wiped sweat from his eyes. He knew what he was walking into, the terrible sight that awaited him, but knowing, preparing, was not the same as armouring.

At first he thought all the birds were dead, but a strangled squawking noise attracted his attention. He jogged to a white-backed vulture that was somehow still alive. Seeing him it tried to hop away, but it had lost its sense of balance and stumbled over its talons and fell, its giant wings sprawling outwards. It was gagging and convulsing, trying to regurgitate the poisoned meat. Its head was drawn back, its neck bent as the painful process of dying continued.

Mike worked the oiled bolt of the Brno, chambering a round. He knew from bitter experience there was nothing he could do for this magnificent creature. He took aim and the gunshot echoed across the veldt.

He walked back to the carcass and felt anger displace the sadness when he saw the first body. As he knelt beside the vulture he indulged himself in a brief fantasy of what he might do if he caught the people responsible for this in the act. If one of them was armed and raised a gun to him, he would be within his rights to …

No. It didn't help talking about shooting poachers, nor the people who used the end products. It was the same with the current epidemic of rhino poaching; hunting poachers, arresting them, or even killing them if they opened fire on the national parks and security forces was only one part of the fight. It was Mike's view, stated ad infinitum at conferences, in media interviews, and around the fire at
braai
s, that the war on poaching could not be won in the African bush; it had to be fought and settled in the mind.

It was easier said than done, however, the business of convincing a Vietnamese businessman that rhino horn was not a fitting status symbol or a cure for cancer, or persuading an aspirational African believer in traditional medicine that sleeping with a vulture's head under his pillow would not guarantee him success at a job interview or a win on the national lottery numbers.

Mike went to another dead bird – he estimated there had to be at least two score of them. His shoulders sagged and his heart hurt. He dropped to one knee, the butt of his rifle resting in the yellow grass. This one, and ten others in close proximity, had been beheaded, probably just before the helicopter arrived overhead. Blood from the magnificent creature's neck mixed with the red earth of Zululand. It was ever thus. Mike looked up and scanned the grassland around him. He saw no movement, but when he took another look at the lifeless birds scattered around the remains of the cow he saw that several, a dozen or more, still had their heads on.

‘Where are you?' he said, addressing the heat haze at the edge of the clearing. Whoever had done this, whoever had killed this cow or, more likely, dragged the roadkill from the tar to the grass then laced it with Carbofuran or some similar poison, was probably not far away. Mike's fingers tightened around the oiled wooden stock of the rifle until his knuckles showed white through his deeply tanned, sun-creased skin.

He stood and scanned the tree line, but there was no sign of movement. Mike walked to the hollowed-out remains of the cow. The vultures had gutted and stripped it with their trademark frenzied efficiency. He knelt again to examine it more closely, and his eyes locked onto a few purple granules. It was definitely Carbofuran. The poison was used by farmers to combat pests and aphids, but it was also harmful to birds and animals. It was deadly enough to take down a lion – farmers in Kenya had been using it against predators, illegally, for years. The poison even had a nickname among poachers, ‘two-step' – the distance a victim would cover before succumbing to the deadly substance.

Mike took out a plastic zip-lock bag from the back pocket of his shorts and a pen from his shirt. He used the pen to scoop some of the poison into the bag. With luck a lab might be able to trace its exact make and source.

The Zulu called vultures Inqe, which meant the one that purifies the land. They did nature's dirty work, clearing up the remains of kills that had provided nourishment for others. They prevented the spread of disease and did not prey on live, healthy animals or people. In short, they did nothing wrong, and a hell of a lot of good. Man repaid the good work Inqe did by vilifying and poisoning them.

Mike felt angry, sad, dejected, and, at the same time, galvanised. He walked around the scene of death, eyes down, looking for spoor. He'd tried calling his contact at Mtubatuba police station, Sergeant Lindiwe Khumalo, but couldn't even get through to the switchboard. Mike had heard on the news that there'd been a bomb blast in Durban. He cared little for international politics or politicians, and while he was saddened by the loss of the American ambassador and her bodyguards, his war was here, in the blood-spattered grass, not in the global war against terrorism, or a clash of religions.

There were parallels, though, he mused as he checked the ground for footprints, tyre tracks and other signs of the people who had committed this mass killing. The poachers killed animals and birds in order to prey on the unproven beliefs of their customers; terrorists invoked religious beliefs to encourage young men and women to die for something ethereal, a promise of a better life after death. It was all crazy.

He had learned to track as a youngster from his father, who had hunted, although Mike himself had never had an interest in hunting beyond shooting a couple of impala for the pot. From an early age he'd set his sights on a career with the old Natal Parks Board. He'd managed it, and had thought he'd have a job for life in the bush. But change had come to South Africa in 1994 with the end of apartheid and the election of Nelson Mandela. Mike had known, like the overwhelming majority of his peers, that their lives would change.

Unlike some, he hadn't been bitter when the axe fell. He was one of the lucky ones, who had completed a university education in the pursuit of his love of wildlife. When he was made redundant, eventually, from the renamed Ezemvelo KZN Wildlife, he left as one of the country's foremost experts on birds of prey, especially vultures. He had found a job with an NGO; money from foreign donors and South African businesses with a conscience kept him in work, but did little to stem the bloodshed. As depressing as his work often was he appreciated the benefits that came with it. He travelled southern Africa, working with various national parks services, counting nests and tracking birds with GPS devices. He trained police and parks officers in what to look for at the scenes of vulture killings and sometimes accompanied them on operations. He gave lectures and media interviews and worked with other researchers and volunteers. He was his own boss and his funders were grateful for the publicity his work generated.

He would need to collect the birds that had not yet been beheaded. Mike scanned the tree line again. He was sure that whoever was responsible for this barbaric crime was nearby, probably watching him, waiting for him to leave.

He stopped at another dead vulture. This one was a lappet-faced, bigger and more powerful than the white-backed vultures around it. With its wickedly curved beak and strength it was the ‘can-opener', capable of opening the toughest skin. It fed first and, in this case, had probably been one of the first to die. He stroked its pinkish neck. His student volunteers were usually surprised at how soft yet strong that skin was. He rarely saw a nick or a scar despite the fierce competition of sharp beaks on a kill.

Mike raised the rifle again and started to walk towards the bushes, his senses ratcheted up a few levels, the hairs on his arms prickling. He'd taken no more than a dozen steps when his phone vibrated in his pocket.

He stopped and thought for a moment. If there was a poacher there, and he was armed, he should at least tell someone what he was doing. He pulled out his phone. He didn't immediately recognise the number, but hoped it might be the police. ‘Mike Dunn.'

‘Mr Mike, it's Solly.'

Solomon Radebe was a sixty-something-year-old ex national parks ranger from Mtubatuba. He had been invalided out of the parks service after a buffalo had charged him and trampled his right leg, breaking it in several places. He walked with a limp. A lifelong protector of wildlife, and as straight as they came, Solly had worked with Mike before his retirement and still kept in touch; he had tipped Mike off in the past about the illegal trade in vulture heads.

‘Howzit, Solly?'

‘Fine, and you?' he replied.

‘I'm fine,' Mike said, and with the protocol out of the way it was safe to say, ‘what can I do for you, Solly?'

‘There is something going on at the Mona market today, right now. This is important, Mr Mike. There is a big man here, fancy car, bodyguards. Something is about to happen.'

Mike had never had reason to question Solly's instincts or his information. Solly had noticed that the buffalo that had charged him was about to attack, and had put himself between another trails guide and their party of tourists to protect them from the charge he saw coming. He'd shot the buffalo, fatally wounding it, but the momentum of its charge had carried it onwards and over Solly's body. He'd received a commendation for bravery.

‘Something like what, Solly?'

‘A big deal. I have seen this man before; he's an ex-politician. I think he is here to buy or sell something very valuable.'

‘How valuable?'

‘Enough to warrant him bringing a bodyguard as well as a driver.'

‘You're watching them?'

‘I am, Mr Mike. I don't want to approach them myself.'

Mike wanted to spend more time at the cow carcass, collecting evidence and photographing the scene. However, Solly's instincts were good and he was fearless. Mike had the option of preserving the scene of one wildlife crime or preventing another.

He went back to his truck and from the rear he took an anemometer, a cigarette lighter and a five-litre can of fuel he kept for cases like this. With the rifle slung over his shoulder he jogged back to the carcass. He held up the wind-measuring device and checked that the direction and speed were in his favour. They were; the wind was blowing back towards the road, and the breeze was only a couple of knots. Even better, the grass on the other side of the road had been recently burned.

Mike set down the device, fuel and his rifle and set to work dragging the dead vultures back to the carcass that had killed them, piling dead upon dead. When he was done, his clothes soaked with sweat, he splashed half the container of fuel over the grisly mound. He lit a handful of dry grass and tossed it; the pyre erupted with a
whoof.
Ideally, he would have had people here to watch that the blaze didn't get out of hand, but at this time of day he was sure the wind wouldn't change. The grass would catch, but the fire would stop at the roadside and burn itself out. Mike spared a look back to the trees and hoped the bastards who had done this were watching the rest of their profits go up in smoke. He gathered his things and jogged back to the Land Rover.

It wasn't far to the Mona market and he pushed his Land Rover as close to the speed limit as it would let him. Villages and bare, overgrazed hills flashed by. When he came within sight of the stalls, but not too close, he pulled off the road and parked. Solly walked down the road to meet him.

The market itself ran along both sides of a back road, a linear collection of ramshackle stalls and huts made of timber, corrugated iron and other cast-off building materials. Here and there were a few more substantial shelters of mud brick. Some sellers plied their wares on makeshift shelves in the open. Side alleys had sprawled from the main road and Mike knew it was usually in these back lanes that the illegal products were to be found. Solly led him to the rear of a brick building, a shebeen, a local bar.

The market was quiet now; the end of month rush, when people were paid, had just passed and many of the stalls were closed, wrapped shut against the elements with fraying canvas and plastic sheeting. A dog, all ribs and mange, trotted down the street searching for scraps. A woman selling tomatoes and cabbages cursed it in Zulu.

After they'd exchanged greetings and shaken hands, Solly said: ‘I got closer to them, and I recognised the big man, the one who is obviously in charge. He was wearing dark glasses, so I couldn't be sure from a distance.'

‘Who is he?'

‘Bandile Dlamini.'

Mike swore quietly. ‘The former politician turned entrepreneur?'

Solly looked left and right. ‘Yes. He talks a good deal about protecting wildlife and the fight against rhino poaching.'

‘Then what's he doing here?'

Solly shrugged. ‘I don't think it's a photo opportunity for the local media, or a campaign rally. He's gone back to his car now. He has a driver and one other man, who looks like a bodyguard.'