The Eye of the Elephant Page 4

  We rushed back to the hotel, threw our clothes into our suitcase, and stopped briefly at the American embassy to report what had happened. At four-thirty-five we hailed a cab to the airport. Fifteen minutes after takeoff, the Limpopo River slipped by below us. On May 15, 1985, as we left Botswana's airspace, we passed from wild, innocent Africa with its sweeping savannas of plains game and wide rivers of sand into a new era of confusion, turbulence, uncertainty, and danger. At the Limpopo we flew into a strong head wind.

  4. Beyond Deception

  DELIA

  The woods where the weird shadows slant,

  The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery,

  I've bade 'em good-by—but I can't.

  . . . .

  There are valleys unpeopled and still;

  There's a land—oh, it beckons and beckons,

  And I want to go back—and I will.

  —ROBERT SERVICE

  STANDING IN THE MIDDLE of a field, five hundred miles south of Deception Valley, I looked up at the moon. At this moment the same full moon was hanging over the desert, and I wished that I could somehow see the reflection of the dunes and the old riverbed in its face. Was Happy still with Stormy and Sunrise? How were Saucy's cubs, and Sage's? Like the wildebeest, we could no longer move freely into the desert; we were another casualty of the fences.

  Botswana gave no official reason for expelling us. Informally, the ambassador to Washington told us that his president, Quett Masire, had been angered by our reports on the fences that blocked Kalahari migrations and resulted in the deaths of hundreds of thousands of desert antelope. But our accounts were accurate, and we believed it our responsibility to report the disastrous effects of these fences on wildlife (see Appendix A). Later another Botswana official confided that we were really deported because powerful ranchers-cum-politicians had wanted to establish their private cattle ranches in the Central Kalahari Game Reserve, and they knew we would speak out against their scheme. One of the longest-running scientific studies of lions and other carnivores in the wild and one of the largest wildlife protectorates in the world were both being tossed aside for the financial benefit of a few people.

  Writing appeals, reports, letters, we tried frantically to get back to the desert. Many people, including U.S. congressmen from both parties, Atlanta's Mayor Andrew Young, and then Vice President George Bush, requested that Botswana's officials allow us to return. But they refused to discuss the issue—even to respond to the vice president of the United States. Months passed.

  Time was being wasted; lion time, hyena time, conservation time, a lifetime, it seemed. We wrote more letters, made more phone calls. But there was no answer from Botswana.

  After eight months Mark accepted the fact that we were banished from the Kalahari and wisely decided that we should search for a new wilderness to study. But hope still stalked me. Even after all this time, I believed a letter would arrive or a telephone would ring with the message that we had been misunderstood, that Botswana had relented and would allow us to go back to Deception Valley.

  I gazed at the farm cottage where we were staying, outside Johannesburg. All but smothered in flowering vines, it was another home that had opened its arms to us, another wonderful family, another friendly dog. We had been living out of suitcases for months, always in someone else's back room or guest cottage r—from California to Johannesburg—and had had so many different addresses that our mail rarely caught up with us. A trail of unanswered letters and spoiled dogs lay behind us.

  One day I noticed a tab of paper pinned on a friend's bulletin board. Amid Gary Larson cartoons and holiday photos was a quote by Alexander Graham Bell, "Sometimes we stare so long at the door that has been closed to us, we do not see the many doors that are open." I read it twice, a third time, then walked to where Mark was writing and said, "It's time to find another Deception Valley." We would go in search of a new wilderness, and with a new idea.

  For years we had believed that, at least in some places, wildlife can be more beneficial to a country and its people than exotic agricultural schemes. Too often aid and development agencies sweep aside the valuable natural resources in an area so they can get on with "real" development. They chop down lush forests and kill off wildlife, only to plant crops that deplete the soil of nutrients and yield poorly; they irrigate arid lands until they are sterilized by mineral salts; they overgraze grasslands, turning them to deserts.

  This is what had gone wrong in Botswana. The Kalahari was teeming with wildlife whose migrations had adapted them to long droughts and sparse grasslands. These animals could be used for tourism, game ranching, safari hunting, and other schemes that would bring revenue to a large number of local residents, including Bushmen. Instead, the World Bank, the European common market countries, and the Botswana Development Corporation wanted to replace wildlife with cattle. Large-scale commercial ranchers in the Kalahari had already killed off hundreds of thousands of wild animals, overgrazed the desert, and depleted the water from fossilized aquifers. They had left a wasteland that was good for neither wild nor domestic stock.

  In most places on earth, Nature long ago figured out what works best, and where. Often the best improvement humans can make is to leave everything alone. Nowhere is this more true than in marginal lands. The least we can do—before we chop down trees or build long fences—is watch for a while, to see if we can make the natural resources work for us in a sustainable way. Perhaps if local people who live near national parks could benefit directly from them, for example through tourism, they would recognize the economic value of wild animals and work to conserve them.

  It was an idea worth exploring. But first we had to find a place.

  ***

  Standing over a map of Africa, we eliminated one country after another. The continent seemed to come apart in pieces: Angola and Mozambique were torn with civil wars; Namibia was under attack from SWAPO (the South West Africa People's Organization), and human overpopulation had just about finished off the wildlife in western Africa. Sudan was out: the Frankfurt Zoological Society, our sponsors, had recently lost a camp to the Sudanese Liberation Army, which had kidnapped the staff members and held them for ransom. As Mark's hand swept across the map, wild Africa seemed to shrink before our eyes.

  The region most likely to have large wilderness areas was tucked under the shoulder of the continent in Zimbabwe, Zambia, Zaire, and Tanzania. We began to outline the hundreds of details for a three-thousand-mile expedition north from South Africa through these countries. Mark would fly the Frankfurt Zoological Society airplane and I would drive the truck with its trailer; we would meet along the way at potential sites. We contacted the American embassies to find out where we could get aviation and diesel fuel, and where it would be safe to land without fear of partisans or bandits. We bought, labeled, and packed camping gear, foodstuffs, and scores of spare airplane and truck parts that would not be available on our route.

  Finally, a year after being expelled from Botswana, we were almost ready to depart. Several travelers had recently been murdered along the main roads through Zimbabwe and Zambia, however, and the American embassies in those countries had issued travel warnings to U.S. citizens. So that I would not have to drive alone, Mark prepared to fly our plane to Lusaka, Zambia. He would leave it at the airport, then return to Johannesburg on a commercial flight so that we could ride together to Zambia.

  On the morning of May 19, 1986, Mark drove to Lanseria Airport just north of Johannesburg, where our Cessna was hangared, to make his flight to Lusaka. Standing in the open door of the plane, he was loading his duffel bag and flight case when a man rushed up behind him and panted, "Excuse me, I believe you're flying to Lusaka?"

  "That's right," Mark answered.

  "Any chance of a lift?" the man asked hopefully.

  "No problem," Mark assured him. "What's the hurry?"

  "Haven't you heard? The South Africans bombed Lusaka this morning. And they hit ANC [African National Congress] hideouts in Botswan
a and Zimbabwe!"

  "Lusaka! Are you sure?"

  "Yeah. I'm a UPI reporter; I've got to get there quick." Mark stared at him for a moment, then said, "I don't know about you, pal, but I'm not flying to Lusaka today."

  Our Cessna 180K was the same model that South African defense forces used for reconnaissance flights, and it still bore its South African registry. After canceling his flight, Mark returned to the cottage where we were staying. We sat at the table reading the latest news releases: "South African Defense Force hits three capitals in the biggest operation so far launched against ANC targets."

  Our plan not only called for Mark to fly into Lusaka, which had just been bombed, but to fly the length of Zimbabwe, which had also been attacked and was known to have antiaircraft guns and surface-to-air (SAM) missiles. It would be foolhardy to fly over these territories with a South African-registered plane. But since we had purchased the plane in South Africa, by international law it had to retain that registry until we officially imported it into another nation and reregistered it. And that we could not do until we had settled in a new country.

  "I'll give it a week; maybe things will cool down," Mark said, looking over his paper at me.

  "Why not fly over Botswana instead of Zimbabwe? There are fewer antiaircraft batteries and missile installations in Botswana," I suggested.

  "Much longer flight, and I might not have enough fuel. Don't worry, Roy told me how to avoid missiles."

  Roy Liebenberg, a former military pilot, had taught Mark how to fly. They still kept in touch. His most recent bit of advice: "Stay real low so they can't get a lock on you. If you see a launch, climb straight for the sun until the missile is right behind you. Then chop the power, break hard right or left, and dive for the ground." Roy had also warned Mark about flying into Lusaka International Airport. Understandably, the Zambians were somewhat trigger-happy since the South African raid, and apparently they had acci-dently shot down two of their own military planes.

  "I can't believe we're having this conversation," I said. Mark shook his paper and went back to his reading.

  After several days, news of the attacks died away, and it became apparent that South African forces had made surgical strikes against ANC headquarters rather than more general attacks against the Botswana, Zimbabwe, and Zambian governments. Mark phoned the American embassy in Lusaka, and although the official with whom he spoke understandably did not want to give any guarantees, he said that life in Lusaka was going on "pretty much as normal and a flight should be fine."

  On May 26, a week after the raids, Mark filed an official flight plan informing the Lusaka control tower that he would arrive at their field that evening. The plan went through by telex and no specific instructions or warnings were issued, so Mark took off. He flew checkpoint to checkpoint over Botswana and Zimbabwe for five hours. Darkness had rolled in beneath him by the time he was over the eastern end of Lake Kariba, the outline of its shore only faintly evident from the cooking fires of remote villages. Lusaka was still fifty minutes away.

  When he approached Lusaka airspace, the controller did not answer his radio calls. Mark tried again and again. No response. He could not know it, but soldiers were manning antiaircraft guns at the end of the runway. The tower controller had alerted them to the approach of an unauthorized South African-registered plane. Cranking the guns around, they fixed their sights on the Cessna.

  Even though Mark had not heard from the controller, he had no choice but to land; his fuel was almost gone. Approaching from the east, he lined up on the main runway and flew directly toward the antiaircraft battery.

  When the plane was off the end of the runway, the gunners began to finger their triggers. Suddenly a Land Rover roared to a stop, and a colonel in the Zambian air force jumped out, yelling and waving his arms as he ran toward the gun battery. Seconds later Mark glided over the end of the runway and touched down.

  Standing about a hundred fifty yards away in its own pool of harsh light, the terminal building looked deserted. Mark climbed out, stretched, unloaded his luggage, and began tying down the plane for the night. All at once, six soldiers stormed toward him from the building, their Kalashnikov (AK-47) rifles leveled at his stomach. "Halt! Do not move!"

  Two of the soldiers grabbed Mark by the arms and steered him into the building and to a room with a faded blue "Police" sign over the door. The others followed with their AKs still leveled at the prisoner. They sat Mark on the bench and stood back, waiting.

  Soon the colonel strode into the room, pulled a chair in front of Mark, and sat down facing him. For seven hours he grilled Mark on who he was and what he was doing in Lusaka. Fortunately, Mark had a briefcase full of introductory letters from the U.S. embassy, research permits, customs clearances, and a copy of his official flight plan. Finally, at 3:30 A.M. the colonel shook his index finger in Mark's face. "I was called to the antiaircraft battery as you were approaching the field. My men wanted to open fire and shoot you down. If I hadn't been there, you would be dead right now."

  The next day Mark returned to Johannesburg on a commercial flight, wondering where a biologist fits on this tormented continent.

  ***

  Our trunks were packed, and preparations for the journey north were complete. We were having supper in the A-frame cottage in Johannesburg, on our last night before departure, when the phone rang. Kevin Gill, our longtime friend, confidant, and legal counsel, was on the line. Some of our mail was still being delivered to his home, where we often stayed, and he told me that we had received an official letter from the government of Botswana. This was their first communication since they had deported us a year ago.

  "Would you like me to read it to you, Delia?"

  "I guess so, Kevin," I said.

  There was a brief silence and the sound of shuffling papers. "Yes, it's what I thought." The letter from Mr. Festes Mochae, personal secretary to the president, was short and to the point: "The president has carefully considered all these appeals and has decided to lift your status as Prohibited Immigrants."

  I muttered a word of thanks to Kevin, hung up, and ran to Mark. For months we had tried to get a reversal of the deportation. We had finally given up and set our sights on a new goal. And now we could go back to the Kalahari. We stared at each other in a confusion of emotions.

  We had been cleared of any wrongdoing, but a lot of international pressure—from the United States and Europe—had been brought to bear on Botswana for deporting us simply because we reported an environmental problem. Other scientists had visited the desert and confirmed that our reports of the dying wildebeest were accurate. People were outraged about the fences; we were no longer the issue. Still, because of all the controversy we knew that we would not be welcome in Botswana at this time. We had no choice but to carry on with our plan to search for a new location. One day we would go back to Deception Valley to look again for a lioness named Happy. But that would be much later.

  ***

  "Toyota Spares." "Airplane Spares." "Everyday Tools." "Everyday Food." "Food Stores." "Cooking Kit." "Bedding and Mosquito Nets." "Lanterns and Accessories." "Reference Books and Maps." "Cameras." "First Aid." "Mark's Clothes." "Delia's Clothes." Carefully labeled heavy trunks filled the truck, along with a mattress, folding chairs and tables, a chuck box, and two jerry cans of water. In the trailer were five drums of aviation gas, a drum of diesel fuel, three spare tires, a pump, a tent, shovels, axes, two high-lift jacks, ropes, and tarps. Driving our tired old Land Cruiser and worn-out trailer, their homemade bodies patched and repatched with scrap steel, we inched our way up Africa. None of the rusty blue trunks of supplies gave a clue to the dreams and the hopes that were packed inside.

  During one portion of our journey through Zimbabwe, we were a hundred miles directly east of the Kalahari. Low, dark clouds stretched endlessly across the sky to the west, and we thought that perhaps rain was falling on the desert. Maybe the long drought had ended; maybe Happy, Sage, and Stormy would at last get a taste of water.
On June 2, 1986, we crossed the Zambezi River, and headed north toward another season.

  ***

  "We thought we would try Liuwa Plain National Park next," Mark said to Gilson Kaweche, chief research officer for Zambia's national parks. We had just spent five weeks exploring Kafue National Park in east central Zambia, often camping in places that had not seen a human in more than twenty years. Kafue was big and beautiful—the size of Wales—but hordes of commercial poachers were exterminating all the wildlife there. The park and its problems were too big for our resources.

  Kaweche shifted uneasily in his chair at our mention of Liuwa Plain. "Ah, well, I'm sorry to say that security is a problem there, because of the UNITA [National Union for the Total Independence of Angola] rebels. Anyway, most of the animals in that park were shot long ago."

  "I guess in that case we could try West Lungu Park first."

  Kaweche's brow wrinkled as he concentrated on the doodle he was drawing. "Yes, but unfortunately in Lungu you will have a similar problem with security: some Zairian smugglers have been laying landmines along the roads. It would be highly risky for you to go there. I doubt my government would permit it."

  "And Sioma Park, down in the southwest? What is the situation there?" I asked.

  "Well, again it's the security problem. Sioma is right on the Caprivi Strip, which is South African territory. Freedom fighters from Angola cross the strip into Botswana on their way to South Africa. The South African army is trying to stop them. It would be unsafe for you to work there."

  "How about Blue Lagoon, on the Kafue River...?"

  "I'm afraid the army has taken over that national park."

  "How can the army take over a national park?"

  "The military can do anything it wants." He chuckled.

  One by one, we asked about the nineteen national parks shown on the maps of Zambia. Most were parks on paper only.