The Eye of the Elephant Read online

  An old man from a nearby village knows how to make proper adobe houses, so we hire him to build new cottages for the scouts and their families. Using beautiful earth shades of rust, red, brown, and green, the scouts' wives paint the new mud houses with striking geometric patterns. We hire a crew of sixty villagers to improve the track into the park.

  The special military-trained scouts promised by the director show up and settle into the new houses. Every dawn Kotela can be heard barking orders as he drills them on the airstrip. Looking neat in their new uniforms, the scouts salute their officers smartly. The old beer pot—formerly the center of activity—has disappeared. Mano Camp, the once-dreary den for bedraggled scouts, is pulsing with new energy.

  We hire two English lads, Ian Spincer and Edward North, who are fresh out of the University of Reading. They are unsuspecting and ready for anything, so we station them at Mano to help Kotela organize camp logistics and a law-enforcement program. Ian, a graduate in agriculture, begins a farm at Mano that produces vegetables, rabbits, and poultry for the scouts and their families. He installs a mill to grind their corn for mealie-meal, and supervises the delivery of all foodstuffs to the remote camps by tractor and trailer. Edward sets up a firearm training program for the scouts, issuing the new guns we have imported from the States. Both he and Ian patrol with them, evaluating their field performance. We purchase more camping equipment and a truck for the scouts, and Simbeye moves to Mano as their official driver. He is also in charge of training an auxiliary force of local villagers who will aid the scouts.

  Kotela, Ian, and Edward organize the unit into seven squads and devise regular schedules for patrols into the park. They employ a regiment of porters—most of whom previously worked for the poachers—to carry food and supplies to scouts in the park. Now the men can patrol for as long as three weeks, covering much larger areas, without Mark's having to fly dangerous resupply mis sions. For the first time ever, there are at least some scouts in North Luangwa National Park at all times. Mark creates special units for those who perform well, and they are issued extra equipment—new guns, jungle knives, binoculars, compasses.

  Everything is in place; but we have yet to capture poachers.

  One afternoon, after supervising the road crew all day, Mark and I drive into the main camp at about four in the afternoon. The place seems deserted, and then we see that all the wives, children, and men of Mano are standing around the n'saka. The scouts have returned from their first village sweep, and the n'saka is crowded with fourteen meat poachers, a pile of illegal guns stacked against a tree outside.

  The sweep continues for four more days. The scouts raid villages all night—bursting into poachers' huts while they sleep—and drive back to Mano in the morning, their truck loaded with suspects and illegal guns. The poachers have acted with impunity for so long that they are caught off guard. Moving swiftly, Kotela and his men capture dozens before the word gets out that the scouts are back in business.

  The old game guards, like Island Zulu and Tapa, walk taller now and salute us with pride. No longer full of excuses and complaints, they tell us wildly exaggerated tales of capturing notorious poachers. Nelson Mumba, still wearing his red bandana and refusing to patrol, and Patrick Mubuka, the scout who shot elephants in the park, are put in the back of a truck, driven to Mpika, and dumped at the warden's door, never to return to Mano.

  While Kotela and his scouts patrol the park and raid the villages, Mark continues to terrorize the poachers from the air. Suddenly Mano has become the number one unit in Zambia, capturing more poachers than any other.

  The five camps of Mano Unit are only effective on the western border of the park. To protect its northern flank, we send Edward North to assist the scouts and villagers of Fulaza. We hire an Alaskan bush pilot, Larry Campbell, to rebuild the scout camp in Nabwalya, south of the park, as well as to solve some of the problems in the village.

  Dramatic as the changes are, they are just a beginning. Al though Kotela is having great success rounding up many of the commercial meat poachers, most of the big ivory poachers in villages like Mwamfushi are still eluding the scouts with their reputed powers of invisible juju. The park covers twenty-four hundred square miles, and only twelve game guards patrol at a time. Experienced men such as Chikilinti and Chanda Seven have little trouble avoiding them. Mark chases them out of the park, but they come right back. The scouts capture one; the magistrate lets him go. Somehow we have to get these men of Mwamfushi Village.

  23. Mwamfushi Village

  DELIA

  Dear Directors

  North Luangwa Conservation Project

  My name is Steven Nsofwa and I am thirteen years old and I student at Mukungule Primary School. Please, I wanting thank Madam and Sir for the things you have done for our village. Now since you are coming the maize mill makes our mealie-meal, the shop sells our soap, the school now has a map of the world. We the students love to play the games about the elephants and draw pictures of the lions. When we grow up we will chase the poachers from our village so that there will always be the animals in the rivers. For now we are not too big to chase them. Please we want to thank you.

  Yours,

  STEVEN NSOFWA

  DODGING DEEP GULLIES and ruts, Mark steers the truck toward Mwamfushi Village. On the seat between us are Mark's leather flight bag and my briefcase. In Mark's flight bag—jammed among the aeronautical maps and papers—is his 9-mm pistol; in my satchel is a .38 caliber revolver. As we drive along, we scan the tall, waving grass along the track, searching for any sign of an ambush.

  We have been warned not to go to Mwamfushi. Even Kotela tells us it is too dangerous. The men in this village have tried to kill us, they've shot at Musakanya's house with automatic weapons, and they have poisoned Jealous and several other people who work for us. But if we can't stop the poachers of Mwamfushi, there is no hope for saving the elephants of North Luangwa. We have sent word to the headman of Mwamfushi that we would like to meet with his villagers this Saturday morning at the schoolhouse. We are gambling that the poachers won't risk attacking us in broad daylight, with other people around.

  Stopping along the way at scattered huts and bomas, we pick up Chief Chikwanda and his retainers. Also with us is Max Saili, who is in charge of our project's work in the villages. When we drive up to the clay-brick school, our pickup splattered with mud and loaded with dust-coated officialdom, thirty villagers are waiting in the barren schoolyard. A few old men, dressed in patched trousers and ragged shirts, shake our hands; but most people just stare. Clutching our cases tightly, we make our way through the crowd.

  As we enter the schoolroom, Mark discreetly points to a man who is a big buffalo poacher. None of the ivory poachers—Chanda Seven, Chikilinti, Bernard Mutondo, Simu Chimba, or Mpundu Katongo—have come, but I am glad this man is here; if he will exchange his weapon for a job, that will set an example for others to follow. Saili, Mark, and I sit in chairs that have been arranged at the front of the room; the villagers sit on the students' benches. We all stand as Saili leads us in the singing of Zambia's national anthem. Its soft, mournful melody drifts out of the cracked windows and across the untended fields.

  Standing to give the opening speech, Honorable Chief Chikwanda is wearing a T-shirt we have given him earlier. The print of a large elephant adorns the back, and whenever he repeats the word "elephant" in his speech—which is very often indeed—he whirls around, swaying back and forth, presenting the dancing elephant to his audience. Shouting and strutting like an evangelistic preacher, he reminds his people over and over that wildlife is a valuable resource, that it is the heritage of his people, and that poachers are sacrificing their children's future. He ends with a stern warning that poaching in his chiefdom must cease immediately. It is quite a performance, but it would be much more impressive if everyone in the room did not know that Chikwanda himself has been charged with elephant poaching more than once. At this very moment, in fact, he is appealing one of his convictions.

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nbsp; Saili introduces us, and as we speak he translates after every few sentences. We begin by explaining that we are not here to arrest anybody; that if, by chance, any poachers are present (we know that probably 85 percent of the people here are involved), we will give them jobs if they turn in their weapons. We know they are poaching because they need food and work, and we are here to help them find alternatives. It is a long, halting business with Saili translating, but finally we exhaust our supply of convincing and worn-out statements. There are murmurs of approval from some of the older, toothless crowd, but several of the younger men argue heatedly among themselves.

  A youth in a faded pink shirt stands up and says in English, "This what you say may be a good thing, but there are many men in this village—not myself, of course (laughter)—who have to poach. You maybe to hire some of them, but you cannot hire us all. There are plenty." Several people nod or shout in agreement.

  Another young man, no more than sixteen, raises his hand. "A friend I have who carry for the poachers. What will he do if poachers go from this place?"

  An elder stands. "That is what the Owenses are saying, they will help us find other work."

  "What are you saying, old man?" shouts the man in pink. "It is you who gives your daughters to the poachers for some little meat!" The room erupts as men shake their fists and shout at one another in Chibemba. One elder stomps out of the room. Raising his hands and speaking Chibemba, Saili eventually restores order.

  When the crowd is calm, Mark speaks again. "We know this will not be easy. But your whole village depends on poaching, which is a crime. Your own children are told to be carriers, which is illegal and dangerous. And you know better than I that if you continue shooting the animals they will all be finished. Think about how far your father had to walk before finding an elephant, buffalo, or hippo to shoot Your grandfathers and fathers could get meat right around your village; now you must walk forty or fifty miles to find any animals. Gentlemen, there are so many people and so few animals now, that they cannot feed you anymore. If you keep killing them, soon they will be gone. So you must find ways to make money by keeping them alive. And we are here to help." Saili translates.

  Again a murmur of discontent rattles around the room. Mark and I look at each other, disappointed; things are not going as we'd hoped.

  Then Mark points to the buffalo poacher in the back of the room. "I'll start with this man. I know you, I have seen you in the park. I'll give you a good job right now. Come and see us after the meeting." The crowd erupts in laughter. The man grins at his friends, but says nothing.

  After forty-five minutes of shouting and arguments, I pass around paper and pens and ask those interested in working for us to write down their names and skills. A few young men walk hurriedly from the room, probably nervous about revealing their identities. But most of those who can write scribble their names, and the names of their illiterate friends.

  Seven of the men—including the man in the pink shirt—claim to be trained carpenters. They are out of work because the tools from their cooperative were stolen and they cannot afford new ones. One man is a tailor; several know how to make and lay bricks; two are licensed drivers. The village is full of men who, if given' a chance, could earn an honest living. Mark and I whisper quietly together, making some quick decisions.

  "We'll start right now to help your village," I say. "First, we'll lend you cash to buy the tools, wood, and hardware necessary to open a carpentry shop. When you are making furniture and bringing in money, you can gradually repay us, so that we can help others."

  "But remember," Mark interrupts, "this is not a gift. In exchange, you must stop poaching and you must chase the big poachers from your village. Do you agree?"

  Almost everyone, including the man in the pink shirt, nods.

  "Also," Mark adds, "we'll hire a labor crew to rebuild the road between your village and Mpika. Musakanya, who was once a poacher from your village but who now works for us, will be the supervisor." Before he has finished speaking, men are scrambling around Musakanya, asking to be chosen for the crew.

  We invite them to apply for loans to start other cottage industries—cobbler shops, peanut presses for making cooking oil— but caution that we cannot grant everyone a loan. Priority will be given to the businesses that employ the most people or produce food or some essential community service.

  By now it is well after lunch. Almost no one has left the schoolroom and many others have come in. Exhausted, we close the meeting with another singing of the national anthem and make our way through the crowd of people pressing around us to ask for help. A small woman, dressed in a red chitenge, grabs my arm. "Madam," she says, "you have forgotten the women."

  I stare at her for a moment, feeling embarrassed. "I promise, I haven't forgotten you. It's just that the men do the poaching, so we've offered them jobs first."

  "You do not understand," she continues. "The women are very dangerous in this village. They do all the work—farming, house building, cooking, washing—while the men sit under the trees. So it is the women who say to their husbands, 'Why don't you go to the park and get some bush meat?' It is the women who tell their children to leave school to work as carriers for the poachers."

  I have not heard this before, but I can see the truth in it. "How can we help?" I ask. Standing in the dusty schoolyard, surrounded by chattering villagers, scampering children, and the ubiquitous scratching chickens, the women and I make a deal to set up a sewing shop for them.

  When at last we reach our truck, still surrounded by would-be converts, I see the buffalo poacher walking quickly around the school toward the fields. He has not come to us for a job. This saddens me, but I feel that otherwise the meeting has been a huge success.

  Not wanting to lose momentum, we immediately send Tom and Wanda Canon, our project volunteers, to Lusaka to buy carpentry tools, a manual sewing machine, a grinding mill, and tools for the road crew.

  A few weeks after our first meeting we drive back to Mwamfushi with Tom, Wanda, and Saili. Eighty men and women are crammed into the schoolhouse, chattering excitedly as they wait for us. Small children line the walls outside, chinning up to poke their faces through the windows. The villagers clap, sing, and ululate a high- pitched, spiritual melody as we present the sewing machine to the women and the tools to the men. We clap along, then open a discussion about other industries that can be started in the village and how poaching can be stopped.

  While Saili is translating, a young man slips through the doorway into the schoolroom and hands Mark a scrap of paper. He reads it, grins, and hands it to me. Scribbled in a wavery block print are the words, "I want to joine yu. I give my weapon. Please to met me in shed behind the school before you going. Cum alone." It is signed "Chanda Seven."

  "Mark, you can't just walk out there by yourself," I whisper. The meeting is finished and almost everyone has filed outside. We are standing alone in a corner of the schoolroom.

  "I'll be careful."

  In the schoolyard Saili, the Canons, and I continue talking to the villagers. Meanwhile Mark, his hand in his flight bag, disappears around the corner of the school, heading for a crumbling mud-brick shed that stands on the edge of a maize patch. A wooden door dangles on one hinge, hiding the dark interior. Mark stands against the wall, listening for sounds from inside, then kicks the door open, and peers in. Gradually his eyes adjust to the darkness, and the outline of a man takes form. He is standing in the shadows behind a crude counter, his hands on its top. Near his fingers—a twitch away—lies an AK-47.

  "You are Chanda Seven?" Mark asks, his eyes riveted on the rifle. "What do you want?"

  "I'll give you my weapon if you give me work."

  "The first thing you must do is step back from the counter." Chanda Seven moves deeper into the gloom. Mark steps quickly inside, takes the rifle by its barrel, and leans it against the wall.

  "I can give you a job. But how do I know I can trust you? You have tried to kill me and my wife, you have shot ma
ny elephants, you have shot at Musakanya's house, you have poisoned Jealous."

  "I do not know how you can trust a man such as me. It can be only that I give you my weapon. Then I am unarmed."

  "It is not enough to give me your weapon. You might come to work for me, learn our routine, then lead other poachers to kill me. To work for me, you must first prove I can trust you. Help me capture the other poachers from Mwamfushi—Simu Chimba, Chikilinti, Mpundu Katongo, and Bernard Mutondo—and I will give you a very good job. You must find out when and where they plan to poach, and send a message to me through Musakanya. Do you agree?"

  "Eh, Mukwai, yes."

  Mark puts the AK in a gunnysack and shakes hands with one of the most notorious poachers in Mwamfushi. Walking back across the crowded schoolyard, Mark gives me a thumbs-up salute.

  I smile. One of the big guys taken—without a shot fired, without a dangerous night flight.

  24. Sharing the Same Season

  DELIA

  The struggle for any dream is always worth the effort, for in die struggle lies its strength, and fulfillment toward the changing seasons of ourselves.

  — WALTER RINOER