The Eye of the Elephant Page 25

  Still unaware of me, he continues to graze, moving on a diagonal toward the sheer edge of the tall bank—and in the direction of his blind eye. Step by step he grazes closer. Finally he puts his left front hoof within six inches of the edge and a slab of the bank crumbles under him. The sixteen-hundred-pound buffalo pitches over the side, feet flailing, into the shallow river below.

  Heaving his bulk onto his hooves with surprising agility, puffing like a steam engine, the old buff swings around and charges the bank, trying to get back up on his ledge. Scrambling halfway up, he loses his footing and rolls into the river again, spray flying. He tries again, with the same result. And again. Each time becoming more frantic—and more pitiful.

  But before I can feel very sorry for him, the buff spins to face me. Standing with his front legs splayed, he swings his head from right to left, taking in his options with his one good eye: obovatum thickets to his right, another bank to his left, and one behind him. I am his path of least resistance; I might as well have cornered him in a back alley. Somehow the water between us has given me a false sense of security. But here the river is inches deep, as he is about to demonstrate.

  Bellowing and snorting, he charges through the river, fountains of water erupting from his feet and crashing around his body. About fifteen feet behind me is a dead tree with a limb at eight feet above the ground. I whirl and run for it, the bull's hooves thumping hollow on the ground behind me. Praying that it will hold me, I jump for the limb, hauling myself up and out of reach as the buffalo charges past and out of sight beyond a thicket. For several minutes I perch there, catching my breath. When I am sure he's gone I jump down, smiling to myself, and head for camp—glad that Delia did not see me running for the tree. She probably would have shot me in the back.

  20. The Last Season

  MARK

  ... an old dream Of something better coming soon for each Survivor.

  — L. E. SISSMAN

  I AM WALKING PAST the big marula tree near the center of camp when Mumanga's "pssst" stops me in my tracks. Looking up, I see a bull elephant watching me from forty yards away. I back up to the wall of the office, and after hesitating for several minutes, the elephant walks slowly to the kitchen. He stands ten feet from the fire where Mumanga is cooking, searching with his trunk through the dried leaves for fruits, curling one after another up into his mouth, his ears flapping back and forth. I walk closer, until I can see the hole in his left ear. It is Survivor.

  At first Mumanga stays rooted to his spot beside the stove. But as Survivor moves even closer, he slowly retreats, backing up until his heels strike the step to the kitchen door and he sits down with a plop. Our wood stove and cooking area is covered with a large thatched roof, which gives some shelter against the sun and rain—but not against elephants. Apparently deciding he needs some roughage to go with his fruit, Survivor snakes his trunk to the thatch, pulls out a great plug, and stuffs it into his mouth. The poles supporting the heavy roof stagger, crack, and groan until I think the entire structure will collapse. And so does Mumanga, who darts into the tile-roofed kitchen cottage. Fortunately Survivor does not care for the taste of the coarse dry thatch; he spits it out and picks up another fruit, feeding around the kitchen and workshop until after dark. Then he shambles away from camp through the long grass, like a massive gray boulder rolling through the moonlight, his great round feet leaving tracks across my life.

  When I get up for breakfast, one side of the thatched roof of the open kitchen boma is sitting on the ground; the other is perched on top of the smashed stove. Weakened by Survivor's assault, the poles supporting the roof have collapsed during the night—with a little help from termites. Delia will have a surprise when she gets back from her camp on the river.

  Later that morning I fly to Mpika to talk with Warden Mulenga about the Mano scouts, who still seldom go on patrol—except when they want some meat. Shuffling her papers and grinning shyly, Mulenga's secretary tells me he is out for the day. Her reaction tells me he is "out" drinking at ten o'clock in the morning. I drive to the British Aid Compound, pick up our mail, and am about to leave for the airstrip when a man named Banda Njouhou, one of the warden's senior staff, catches up with me and leads me to a quiet corner of the compound, where we sit under a tree.

  Looking about nervously, he begins. "Mark, the warden is not only warning poachers of patrols, he is poaching himself." On weekends Mulenga is taking trucks donated to National Parks by USAID (United States Agency for International Development) and driving to the game management areas, where he orders scouts to shoot buffalo and other animals. Then he hauls the bush meat back to Mpika and he, his wife, and two scouts sell it from his home, at the market, at two bars, even at the banks.

  "The warden uses the Mano Unit's ammunition and gasoline rations for poaching," Banda goes on, "and he sells their mealie-meal rations. He is also trading in animal skins." Patrick Muchu, the Fulaza unit leader, and some of his scouts are shooting cheetahs, leopards, lions, zebras, and other animals, whose skins Mulenga sells on the black market through a senior parks official in Lusaka. He and the official transfer scouts who are Mulenga's cousins to areas around the North Park, to help him poach. And they send away good scouts like Gaston Phiri.

  "What can we do about this?" I ask Banda.

  "We could catch him at a roadblock some night when he is returning to Mpika with his truck full of meat."

  "Yes, and what scouts or police can we trust to arrest him? And if they arrest him, what do you think the magistrate will do? He poaches too, you know."

  He holds up both hands. "Yes, I know these problems very well. I don't know what you can do. I can do nothing; these are my bosses."

  As we walk back to his truck, I thank him for coming to me with his information.

  Almost as soon as he drives away, another truck pulls up and stops near me. Two men get out and introduce themselves as officers from the Anticorruption Commission. One of the men, small, with a round face, frowns. "I am afraid someone has charged you with buying black-market military weapons." The other man, slightly taller, with a thin, haggard face, looks silently at me.

  "What? Who says so?"

  "Do you know Bwalya Muchisa?" asks the round-faced man.

  "Bwalya accused me of this? Where did you see him?" He went to visit his family almost two months ago and I've been wondering what has happened to him.

  "He's in Lusaka. He's been caught with a new black-market AK, and he told a minister you gave him the money to buy it. Look, we know about your good work, but I'm sure you understand that some very important people are dealing in ivory and don't like what you are doing to stop it. This minister may be one of them. He wants you out of here very much."

  Sitting at the table in our hut, I write six pages of testimony, saying that Bwalya must have bought the AK for poaching, and when he was caught with it, he came up with the story that I had given him the money to buy it. Since his father is one of Zambia's most infamous and successful commercial poachers, he probably has connections to this minister, connections Bwalya has exploited to try to save himself. Or maybe the minister is out to get me. If so, he must have found out that Bwalya worked for me, learned that he had been caught with an AK, and is trying to use this information to get me thrown in jail or out of the country. Later I would learn from my informants that the whole time Bwalya was working for us, he was keeping an AK-47 and lending it to poachers. As soon as I hand over my finished statement, the officers stand to leave.

  "I would advise you to get a lawyer," the round-faced man says. "We'll be in touch. Please notify us if you intend leaving the country." We shake hands and they drive away.

  Back at camp, I pack and fly to Lusaka to meet with a lawyer, who tells me that until I am arrested, there is nothing he can do. I brief the American ambassador and the British high commissioner in case I need their help, and then fly to Mpika. There I ask friends to radio us if they hear that the police or military are headed for Marula-Puku. Back at camp again, I
refuel the plane and keep it on standby for a quick takeoff.

  During September of 1990 Survivor continues to visit our camp, often bringing with him another elephant we call Cheers. One morning, when Delia has come to Marula-Puku to resupply, we are walking along our footpath to the kitchen for breakfast, the golden sunlight spilling into camp through the marula trees. "Mark, look, across the river." Delia points to a group of five elephants feeding near the staff camp. One is Survivor. We watch him pull up big bunches of long grass, then beat the roots against his foot to dislodge the dirt before stuffing them into this mouth. Sparrow weavers hop on the ground near our feet, chirping loudly, and a family of warthogs kneel on the riverbank upstream, rooting for food. It is one of those cool, still mornings when Africa seems to be standing back from the mirror, admiring a last vestige of her fading beauty.

  BWA! A gunshot cracks from across the river and echoes off the high bank behind camp.

  Delia spins toward me, half crouching, the color draining from her face.

  "Oh God, no! Mark, they're shooting Survivor! Do something!"

  BWA! BWA! BWA!

  "Get behind a tree!" I shout, pushing her toward the big marula next to our footpath and sprinting for the office. I grab the rifle and shotgun from the corner near the bookcase, and strap on my pistol.

  "Kasokola! Simbeye! Get to the truck!" I bellow through the office window. I jerk open the cupboard door, claw ammunition from the shelves, and stuff it into my pockets.

  BWA! BWA! BWA! BWA! BWA! BWA! Six more shots thunder from across the river. The hundred-fifty-yard dash to the truck leaves my legs rubbery.

  "Do you have your revolver?" I ask Delia as I climb into the Land Cruiser.

  "Yes! Just go!" She dumps two more boxes of ammo into my lap.

  With Kasokola and Simbeye in the back of the pickup, holding on tightly, we race the quarter-mile to the staff camp, driving across the Lubonga, spray and rocks flying. As we near their camp I lean on the horn and whistle for the guys to come. "Let's go! Let's go!" But they are already running for the truck before it stops.

  I hand Mwamba the shotgun and Kasokola the .375, then spill ammo for each gun onto the seat of the truck and scoop it into their hands.

  "Where did the shots come from?" I ask. I am afraid I already know, but the echo from the high banks along the river has made it hard for me to be sure.

  "That side!" Mwamba points directly at the spot where Delia and I had seen Survivor feeding from our camp. I look at these young men. They are workers, not fighters. Only two of them are armed. The other six are carrying hoes, shovels, pickax handles. "You don't have to come with me," I tell them. "These poachers have AKs. It'll be dangerous." None of them walks away. "I won't think less of any of you for staying here. This isn't your job." Still they stand there.

  "Right," I say. "Let's go! Kasokola, Mwamba; help me cover the river while the unarmed men cross!"

  No such order prevails. Mwamba and Kasokola immediately leave me and swarm across the river with the others. I lag behind, training my pistol on the opposite bank. We are sitting ducks as we struggle through the current.

  "You guys with the guns, stay up front!" I whisper harshly. We are in the tall grass and brush on the opposite bank, and may run into the poachers at any time. Once at the top of the ridge, we sweep upstream along the river, looking for human footprints going to or from Survivor, or his tracks accompanied by blood spoor—drops of crimson in the dust that may warn us he has been wounded rather than killed. With this sweep I am hoping to keep the poachers from taking cover in the thick Combretum fragrans scrub, and to flush them out into the open riverbed. I curse their gall, shooting an elephant within sight of our camp. Then a thought strikes me: maybe they wanted to be seen.

  "Nsingo!" I grab the arm of one of our new workers. "Is anyone in camp with Delia?"

  "No."

  "Then you get back there as fast as you can, in case the poachers attack the camp. Mwamba! You, Simbeye, Chende Ende, and Muchemwu carry on with the sweep. Kasokola and I will go with the others to look for Survivor. If you come across the poachers, don't wait for them to shoot first."

  My team scours the riverbank east of where I'd seen Survivor. The tall grass along the river, and the dense brush and hard ground back from it, make the search difficult and dangerous. We will be lucky to get out of this without someone's getting shot, or trampled by a wounded elephant. I soon lose contact with Kasokola and the rest of my group. I hope they will not contact Mwamba and the others and open fire on one another.

  After half an hour I still have not found any sign of Survivor or the poachers, and I am growing more and more worried that the shots may have been a decoy and that the poachers are in camp now. Giving up the search, I wade back across the river and run to the truck.

  As soon as I pull into camp I see Delia, her revolver strapped to her hip, and Nsingo:—but no poachers. Thank God, no poachers. I try to convince her to come with me in the plane to look for Survivor. But she insists that someone must guard camp, and Nsingo has never seen a revolver before.

  "Be careful!" I warn as I jump into the truck.

  "Be careful yourself. I'll stand by on the radio."

  When I am airborne, Delia gives me a rough bearing from camp to where the shots had been fired. Heading in that direction, I have only flown a few seconds when I see the body of an elephant, its tusks hacked off, lying in a deep sandy stream cut just a little beyond where we had been looking. Vultures are already spiraling down to the carcass, and I cannot tell if it is Survivor. Mwamba and his group are within fifty yards of the dead elephant and walking quickly toward it. I stick my arm out the window and motion them back toward camp. The poachers have fled and there is nothing more they can do here. Better to have them in position to defend Marula-Puku if necessary.

  After checking with Delia on the radio, I fly to Mpika to get some of the new scouts who recently arrived. I can only hope that they have not yet been corrupted, but in any case there is nothing else I can do. They are my only hope of capturing these poachers.

  Leaving the scouts on the airstrip at Marula-Puku, Kasokola and I take off at four-thirty in the afternoon to look for the poachers. After shooting Survivor they will have headed for Mpika by the most direct route that provides them with cover and water—along the Mwaleshi River. We have flown along the river for only fifteen minutes when we spot their camp near the scarp. I circle some distance away, pretending to be interested in another area. A few minutes later, looking through binoculars, I see some familiar green tents and flysheets. I know immediately who owns them: Chikilinti, Chanda Seven, Mpundu Katongo, and Bernard Mutondo.

  I fly back to our airstrip on the Lubonga, land, and then take off again with Brighton Mulomba, the scout leader, to show him the camp and the most direct way to get there. From a distance we can see a column of smoke with vultures circling around it. The poachers have killed another elephant and apparently are feeling secure enough to take the time to dry its meat. I can drive the scouts to a point only a two-hour hike from the poachers, who will be virtually trapped by the valley's steep walls. It will be hard not to catch at least some of them.

  Back on the ground I give Mulomba and his troops a pep talk. As soon as I have finished, the group leader announces, "Ah, but you see, my fellow officers and I have decided that we are not due to go on patrol for some time yet."

  "But this is an emergency," I explain, "not a regular patrol, and according to the regulations you are bound to take action against these poachers."

  "Yes, but anyway we are needing salt and..." Resisting a powerful urge to draw my pistol, I turn and walk away.

  Back at camp Delia tells me that she saw Survivor running as the shots were being fired. She believes he may have been only wounded, or may have escaped unharmed. But in the past I have often found the carcasses of other elephants several miles from where they were shot, and Survivor was surrounded by the gunfire. He must have been hit by at least some of the bullets. If they have n
ot killed him outright, he will surely die of his wounds.

  We hike across the river to the carcass. Sprawled in the sand of the dry streambed, it is already bloated, rotting, blown with maggots, the juices of its decay fertilizing the soil. It has been so mutilated, first by the poachers and then by scavengers, that at first we cannot make an identification. It is a male about his size, however, and I finally conclude that it must be Survivor. But Delia cannot accept it.

  "Mark, we can't see his left ear. We don't know it's Survivor." She bites her lip and turns away.

  I cannot delude myself that he is still alive. To me he has become another statistic in the war against poachers. All hope of saving this valley and its wildlife seems to have died with him. For our own sakes, for our sanity, we must at last recognize that there is a time to quit, a time to admit that nothing more can be done.

  But I have not yet played my last card.

  21. Cherry Bombs

  MARK

  Why not go out on a limb? Isn't that where the fruit is?

  —RENEE LOCKS AND JOSEPH MCHUGH

  AT SUNSET THE SAME DAY, Kasokola and I take off and fly low-level north along the Lubonga toward the scarp. By using the mountains to cover our approach, we hope to surprise the poachers who shot Survivor.

  I have removed the door from Kasokola's side and turned his seat around so that he can see out easily. Cradled across his lap is a twelve-gauge shotgun tied to his wrist with a bootlace, so that the slipstream will not tear the weapon from his hands. The gun is loaded with cracker shells, each of which will project a cherry-bomb firecracker to a hundred yards, where it will explode with a blinding flash and a very loud bang. Cherry bombs are virtually harmless, but Chikilinti won't know that.

  At the scarp I climb the plane into the mountains, dodging peaks and hopping over ridges, staying low to keep the poachers from hearing the plane until the last minute. It is almost dark by the time we reach the headwaters of the Mwaleshi River, a few miles upstream and a thousand feet in elevation above their campsite. I pull back the plane's throttle, lower my left wing, and sideslip into the deep river gorge. Sheer, dark canyon walls loom close on either side of us. I drop flaps to slow Zulu Sierra and bank steeply right and left, hauling the plane through hairpin turns as we descend through the gorge.