Still Life with Elephant (9 page)

T
HERE ARE
elephants, and there are elephants, and as we flew across the continents to our destination, I dreamed of both kinds. One lumbering and gray, one graceful and dark brown. One needing to be rescued. One beyond it.

We were all asleep when we touched down at Harare Airport.

“Mr. Thomas,” Grisha called out, and the rest of us snapped awake. “We make the landing.”

I looked out the window across an ultra-modern airport, bustling with planes and trucks and cars. Ahead of us, the terminal gleamed in the brilliant sun, an enormous windowed building with huge green awnings that were half closed, like heavy-lidded eyes. The yellow, green, red, and black striped flag of Zimbabwe flapped vigorously in the wind. On one side of the terminal was a very high, rounded tower that looked like a cross between a pineapple and a pine cone.

“That's the aerodrome,” Tom said when I pointed it out. Then he rose from his seat and walked to the front of the plane. “Listen,” he said, “we'll be going through customs in a few minutes, and then I plan for us to leave the airport right away. Stay close to me. Let me do all the talking. There should be a jeep waiting for us. Be discreet.”

We followed Tom from the plane and into the terminal, clean and brimming with light. Tom took charge of everything without appearing overbearing. The customs agents were casual and friendly, but I couldn't help noticing that over every door hung a portrait of President Mugabe, sternly overseeing all the proceedings. Tom surreptitiously passed out packets and packets of colorful bills to just
about everyone who worked for the airport, so that the cargo on the plane could unload without being examined.

“Do you need anything?” Tom turned to me once we got through customs. “There's a loo here where you can freshen up. It's in pretty decent order. Take some Zims with you, in case you want to buy toiletries or anything.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out another impressive fistful of Zims, the Zimbabwean dollar.

“You're too generous,” I protested, taking one or two from what seemed hundreds. “This is enough.”

“The black-market exchange is insanely inflated,” he said under his breath. “Over a hundred thousand Zims for one U.S. dollar—at least for today—so take whatever you need.”

I enjoyed using the bathroom sans audience, then hurriedly washed my hands and face and combed my hair before rejoining the group. Tom pulled me aside.

“I've cautioned you about the political situation,” he said, his voice still kept low, “so you are more than welcome to remain in Harare until we get back with the elephant. There's a Sheraton I can call.”

“I want to go with everyone,” I said.

He gave me a long, searching look. “Okay.”

He quickly led us outside, across a large parking lot where a safari jeep waited with a driver. The jeep was big enough to seat ten people, and had metal crossbars that arched over our heads and supported its roof. Grisha loaded our luggage, extended a hand to help me up, then gestured for Matt to climb in next.

“And Mr. Doctor can take seat with Madame Sterling,” he said, giving a little bow of his head.

Matt sat down next to me, and I immediately moved to the seat behind him and flushed when I saw that Tom had caught me doing it. He climbed in next and sat in the seat facing me. Richie and Grisha settled into seats in front of us. After everyone was aboard, Tom reached down and pulled out a large khaki blanket and tossed it at my feet. It was a warm day, and I gave him a puzzled look.

“Be glad if you don't need it,” he said.

The jeep sped off. We were to meet the rest of the crew about one hundred miles outside the city.

In my silly ignorance, I didn't know what I expected from Harare—maybe something along the lines of Tarzan huts hung with leopard skins—but we drove down wide boulevards lined with tall, modern buildings, and colorful billboards advertising products like Koo Smooth Apricot Jam and Chibuku Shake Shake, a beer that apparently came in purple plastic bottles and needed mixing before drinking. We drove through tunnels made by lush red bougainvillea and jacaranda trees heavy with purple-blue blooms. But there was little traffic.

“No petrol,” said Tom, when I questioned him. “I bring my own.”

I didn't ask how he managed that, but hoped it wasn't on the same plane that had just transported all the hay and Grisha's ever-present cigarettes.

After the sophisticated main avenues, we drove through a city in calamity. Men huddled under tarps, slumped over small campfires they had built on the street curbs; mountains of garbage overflowed the sidewalks, almost blocking some streets. And men scoured through the garbage looking for scraps of food. Thin, starving, desperate men. Ragged, bony children ran behind us, with their hands out, and dogs lay dying, too weak to move or even bark.

“Very bad,” Tom said. “It is very bad. No money for food. No money for petrol, not even for the government trucks to pick up trash.”

“Da,”
Grisha agreed, turning around in his seat to talk to us. “The golden-mint has lost control. Now they have elated prices.” I nodded at him, which only encouraged him to expound further on the Zimbabwean political crisis, the severe inflation, the weather, and the plight of both the people and the wildlife.

“How did you get interested in elephants?” I asked him when he paused to light a cigarette.

He pursed his lips and took a long drag on his cigarette. “I work
in Vietnam during American war many years in the back. American golden-mint napalms all the elephants.” He looked down, his face darkened. “Very bad. I commence work to save them.”

“Oh God,” I said, covering my mouth with my hand. “Don't tell me any more.”

“No,” Grisha agreed.

We drove on. There was no place to turn my eyes. One street after another was a study in deprivation.

“Why isn't anyone helping them?” I asked.

“Golden-mint very bad here,” Grisha said, standing up and leaning toward us, to make a point. “Mr. Thomas distrubumates maize and fruits to the peoples.” He shook his head. “Loaf of bread cost peoples sixty-one thousand Zim dollar. Mr. Thomas gives all free.”

That needed no translation, and I looked at Tom, now realizing why Grisha had informed us that we hadn't seen the pallets of maize. Tom was smuggling it into the country. “Bread is only about fifty-five American cents, but it is more than most can afford,” Tom commented.

“Mr. Thomas has big peoples' charity to boots,” Grisha added. “But everything is heavy secret.”

Tom looked uncomfortable. “It's dangerous here,” he said softly. “Mugabe is extremely sensitive to outside criticism, even if it puts his own people at risk. I have formal charities, of course, but the money becomes diverted once it gets here. I do what I can—I bring in food and…remove an elephant or two.”

“There's no sanctuary you can bring them to right here in Zimbabwe?” I asked.

He shrugged. “There is Chipangali Rescue in Bulawayo, but they're strapped. And then there're all the complications…”

Words, words, and the money thing again.

We headed for the outskirts of the city, and then beyond. We drove past dozens of plantations that had been seized and now lay abandoned and fallow, and miles and miles of desolate, dried flatlands. Another hour passed; we ran out of gravel roads.

“The camp is farther west,” Tom said. “I have to keep moving it, but the driver knows the way.”

The jeep bounced along with alarming swoops and dips from the badly rutted dirt road. I saw Matt fly out of his seat twice, hitting his head on the crossbar above him. One more good jounce and he changed seats, which disappointed me. I was hoping he'd get a few more good thwacks before we arrived at our destination. After several miles, I noticed a large truck following us on the otherwise empty road. I leaned forward and poked Richie and pointed with my eyes.

“Truck,” Richie said to Tom.

“It's okay. They're our supply truck,” Tom answered. “They're just catching up. They had to unload the plane and disperse the supplies. The rest of it is for the elephants.”

“Da,”
Grisha said. “The enamels get twisty and rummage the village chairs.”

I had no idea what he was saying, but made a sympathetic noise, which seemed to please him.

We had lost the dirt roads by now and were driving over an endless stretch of dried yellow pampas punctuated by stunted plants, and round clumps of grass that resembled large, golden, long-haired guinea pigs; we drove past thorn-acacia trees, with lacy umbrella-shaped tops that looked too delicate to support the baboons that swung through them, following our progress. Impala startled and leapt away from the sound of the jeep, and herds of gazelle stopped grazing to watch us with cautious posture.

Africa.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The air was scented with grasses and brush and wildflowers and dust. And there were new sounds. I needed to listen to these sounds. The huge flapping of birds overhead, whistling and calling, the screeching of animals unseen, roars and barks and grunts I didn't recognize. I wanted to memorize the noise of Africa, to absorb it and lock it away. I looked over at Richie, who was wide-eyed. I glanced at Matt. He was en
tranced as well, but said nothing. He had never turned around to face me during the drive. Not once.

Tom suddenly stiffened and pulled out a pair of binoculars. The merest wisp of dust was spiraling up in the distance. He leaned over and pulled the khaki blanket from under my feet.

“Get down,” he ordered me.

“Down?” I was confused by his request.

He unfolded the blanket. “On the floor,” he commanded. “Cover yourself completely and don't move.”

In a minute I knew why. Two old trucks bucked and belched along the horizon, then slowly turned toward us. I followed Tom's orders immediately. Our jeep came to a halt, and so did our supply truck. I could hear Tom's men jump from the back of the supply truck, the clack of their rifles as they immediately positioned themselves around both vehicles.

“Renegade soldiers,” Tom said under his breath. “Either from Mugabe or fighting him. Once you leave Harare, it can get pretty lawless. There are rifles under your seats. I want everyone to grab one.”

I had time to reach beneath my seat and pull one of the rifles close to my body. I had no idea how to use it, but it made me feel better.

The trucks pulled close, and I heard the doors open, then slam shut, followed by men shouting in another language. Tom stood up in the jeep and shouted back at them in their own tongue.

Their exchange lasted for several minutes, while I lay under the blanket, holding my breath. Finally, there was the sound of laughter, and the trucks pulled away. After a few minutes, Tom reassured me that I could take my seat again.

“They call themselves war veterans,” Tom said to us. “But they are poachers. Or looters. Or both. Some of them kill for fun.” He paused, then looked at me meaningfully. “Some do worse.” I shivered involuntarily.

“What were they laughing at?” Richie asked.

“They asked me what I was doing here, and I told them I was
going to steal their elephants,” Tom replied. “And they laughed and said they are pests, not so good for eating, and we should take them all or they will kill them.”

We drove another two hours without incident, but I sat cocooned in the khaki blanket, and reflected on how far away I was from home, and how different Africa looked, the contrast of the golden savannas with the green mountains of New York State, how different the animals were, elephants and horses, and, sadly, how very much the same they both were sometimes treated.

M
ATT AND
I had managed to avoid speaking to each other for the entire trip so far, but it was getting harder and harder to act as though things were normal.

Nightfall brought a rose-colored sky and a sudden electric storm. By the time we pulled into camp, we were thoroughly impressed with Africa's capricious rainfalls.

“I thought you said there was a drought,” I said to Grisha. I was now using the khaki blanket as a raincoat.

“Heavy chowder,” Grisha agreed.

“It won't last,” Tom commented. “And it won't be enough to do any good.”

The jeep pulled into camp just as a long, sizzling bolt of lightning revealed one large tent and about two dozen smaller white-plastic domed tents behind it, glistening in the rain like a city of huge, half-sunken golf balls. The outline of a grounded helicopter flashed silver against the wet grass. Three large trucks, now including our supply truck, were parked nearby, and dozens of men bustled around, impervious to the rain, carrying supplies and shouting exchanges in ChiShona. Tom, Grisha, and Richie jumped from the jeep and immediately busied themselves. That left Matt and me, and we still weren't talking.

“I'd better try and find the elephant vet,” Matt said, more to himself than me. I turned my face away and stayed in the jeep, propping my legs up on the opposite seat. I was dry, protected by the jeep's roof, and was sleepily watching the lightning flash in sheets across the sky.

“You're sure you want to sit there?” Richie called out to me from inside a nearby tent.

“I absolutely cannot move,” I called back. “I'm exhausted. I'll wait till it's over.”

“Metal feet,” he said, raising his voice over the crash of thunder.

“No, they're leather.” I lifted my legs to show off my shoes. Then I caught on, and scrambled down. “Right.” I agreed.

Metal jeep. And you don't want to be sitting in one in a lightning storm.

We were ushered into the larger tent, which was illuminated by the wavering lights of two battery-operated fluorescent lamps. Tom introduced Dr. Billy DuPreez, elephant veterinary specialist, and Donovan Hobbs, the helicopter pilot.

Donovan Hobbs reached out to shake my hand. “He's a Bateleur,” Tom explained.

I wasn't going to touch that one. I nodded and smiled like I understood, and patiently waited. Matt, who was standing behind me, asked, “What's a Bateleur?” Bingo.

“They're a group of pilots from South Africa who have donated their time and planes to fly animal-rescue missions,” Tom explained. “They named themselves after the bateleur—it's a type of eagle.”

“Bateleur,” I said, savoring the name. It sounded wild and noble. Donovan Hobbs smiled and bowed his head at me. He had curly red hair and was very tall and had an impenetrable South African accent, as did Dr. Billy DuPreez, who was dark-haired and short.

“This your first ellie?” Dr. DuPreez asked me.

“Ellie?” I thought I had misheard him.

“Elephant,” he said. “We call them ellies.”

“My very first,” I said.

“Rack of lamb sidewise.” He put his hand on my shoulder and smiled. “It'll grow onions.”

I smiled and nodded. In fact, that's basically what I did for the entire hour, listening to him and Donovan Hobbs; I didn't understand one word being spoken by either of them, a personal best.

“We'll dine now,” Tom finally announced, as though he were graciously hosting a dinner party in his home. He called to one of his workers, and soon platters of something called
mopane
in a peanut sauce were passed around. I spooned some onto my plate, and was eating it when Richie whispered in my ear.

“Like that?” he asked. “It's an African delicacy.”

“Mmm,” I said, lifting a second forkful into my mouth. “But it has an odd texture.”

“Fried worms would,” he said. I coughed and pushed them to the edge of my plate.

This first course was soon followed by plates of fragrantly spicy meat and roasted yams, and, having passed on the
mopane
, I hungrily dug into the new food on my plate.

“Delicious,” I commented to Grisha, eagerly taking a second plateful from him.

“Da,”
he agreed, exhaling a long plume of smoke that totally surrounded my head and face. “Better than American cheeseburger.”

“What kind of meat is it?”

“Barbecued warthog,” he replied.

I went through every mental permutation I could think of, trying to figure out what he had really said, before coming to the conclusion that it was, indeed, barbecued warthog. I handed him back the plate, the food untouched. “Sure fills you up fast,” I said.

Tom bade us all good night and left the tent, but not before greatly urging us several times to get some sleep, as though we would all be opposed to such a preposterous idea.

The storm had passed by now, and I stood outside the tent to look around. Grisha was at my side in a flash, careful to point out that Madame Sterling could employ the nearby very large trunk of a baobab tree to duck behind, for her
toilette
, which, he hastened to add, included the amenities of having very nice leaves to use for toilet paper, but to make sure that I was accompanied by either him or one of Tom's men if I should decide to pay a visit in the middle of the night.

“Why do I always have to pee in front of an audience?” I asked testily.

“Madame could take chance of intimate liaison with lion,” Grisha replied, puffing on his ubiquitous cigarette. “They like—”

“Don't tell me,” I said. “I taste better than American cheeseburger.”

He opened his palms in a gesture of helplessness at the truth.

I eyed the tree and I eyed Grisha. “I'll call you,” I said.

Richie walked over to me, carrying a sleeping bag. “This is for you.” He transferred one into my arms. “Those small tents are for us to sleep in. I'm sharing one with Grisha and the pilot.”

“For your sake, I hope Grisha doesn't smoke in his sleep,” I said. Richie laughed.

I looked around. “Which tent is mine?”

“Over here.” He gestured for me to come. “I'll show you.”

“Great.” I picked up my suitcase and followed him to one of the smaller tents.

“There's only one problem.” He turned to me and gave me a rueful shrug. “You are sharing it with Matt.”