Trackers (17 page)

The Basics of Tracking:
Classification of signs

At a quarter to four I was still sitting on the ground, only
the thin tree trunk between me and the pitiless sun. My cellphone rang. I got
to my feet and took it out of my trouser pocket, hoping it was Diederik Brand.
There was a lot I had to say to him.

It was Oom Joe van Wyk. Of Loxton. 'Lemmer,
ou maat
, I hear Diederik has got you into
something.'

'Yes, Oom,' addressing him in the Karoo vernacular.

'Did he pay you up front?'

'I don't know, Oom Joe, he's working through my employer.'

'Oh. No, that's all right then. And what must you do for
him?'

'I'm not at liberty to say.'

'Ay, that Diederik,' he laughed his happy laugh. 'Well then,
sterkte,
Lemmer,
ou
maat
,' he wished me well as his 'old friend'. 'Tante Anna sends her
regards.'

At ten to four my phone rang again. Oom Ben Bruwer, the
builder in Loxton, the man who I had consulted about my rotting roof. 'So,
you're working for Diederik Brand.' A reproach.

'Only for a day or two, Oom.'

He chewed over the information. 'Nonetheless, if I were you I
would ask for a deposit. Fifty per cent up front.'

'He's negotiating with my boss, Oom Ben.'

'Nonetheless, I would ask for fifty per cent up front. Have a
good day.' And he was gone.

Loxton was waking from its afternoon nap. News was spreading
like a virus.

At half past five the eccentric Antjie Barnard called,
seventy years old, a retired international cellist who smoked and drank as if
she were twenty. 'Emma is sitting with me here on my veranda, we're drinking
gin and tonics and missing you,' she said in her ever-sensual voice.

And here I stood sweating in the Limpopo sun, all my patience
exhausted, waiting. I swallowed that thought. 'I miss you both too.'

'She says you are working for Diederik, but she's very
secretive.'

'That's my Emma. Always an enigma.'

Antjie giggled. That meant she was on her third gin. 'You
know how you deal with Diederik?'

'Take your money up front?'

'Aah, Joe has phoned you already.'

'And Oom Ben.'

'The town is concerned about you.'

'I appreciate that.'

'Do you want to talk to Emma?' So that Antjie could listen
and pick up clues to what I was doing for Diederik.

This was not the right time to speak to Emma.

'I'm a little busy, Antjie, tell Emma I'll call her later.'

At ten to five a lorry drove up the tar road. The logo of
Nicola's Wildlife Services on the door of the white cab, and a massive bull bar
in front. I walked to the edge of the road and waved my arms. If he drove past
I was going to take the shotgun and shoot out a tyre.

He stopped.

As I opened the door, swung the bag up and climbed in,
Lourens le Riche said: 'I thought Oom would be at the airfield?'

I said nothing. Slammed the door harder than necessary.

'I'm
Lourens, Oom,' he put out his hand. 'Have you been waiting long, Oom?'

The le Riche family were a Loxton legend.

My knowledge was limited, from bits of stories told here and
there. They farmed out on the Pampoenpoort Road, merino
sheep on 6,000 hectares, no labourers on the farm.
The family did everything themselves - father, mother, two sons and a
daughter. Like their parents, the children were sinewy and tough.

Lourens, the oldest, was a final-year agricultural student at
Stellenbosch. He paid for his own studies, taking every possible opportunity to
earn a few rand. Like this one. I wondered if he had got his money up front.
But I didn't ask because I was sticky with sweat, hot and angry.

'Oom Diederik said you would be here around five o'clock,' he
explained his time of arrival as he pulled away. 'So I took a nap, because
we're going to pull an all-nighter.' His face was angular: high forehead, a
determined chin, easy smile. 'Did you have a good flight, Oom?'

It was the innocence in his voice that stopped me from taking
out my frustration on him. I felt the refreshing air conditioning, angled the
vent in the instrument panel towards me, turned the knob of the fan up and
said, 'No, not really. And you don't have to call me Oom.'

'OK, Oom.'

I shifted the sports bag into the space behind the seats, put
on my seat belt and settled into the seat.

'Diederik was a bit vague about our schedule.'

'We are going to get something to eat in town now, Oom,
because we are loading tonight after dark. Round about eight. And then we are
on our way.'

As the Mercedes diesel growled up the main street of Musina,
Lourens le Riche said: 'You must be
lekker
hungry, Oom, shall we go and get a steak?'

To my relief, Lourens was not a chronic talker.

We parked in Grenfell Street. He took two large coffee flasks
from behind his seat and locked up the lorry carefully. He was wearing the
young Karoo farmer's uniform: blue jeans, khaki shirt with blue shoulder
inserts, co-op boots. We walked in silence to the Buffalo Ridge Spur Steak
Ranch on the corner. The restaurant was quiet in the late afternoon, the air
conditioning mercifully cool.

Lourens ordered a T-bone and Coke, and asked them to fill his
flasks with black, bitter coffee. I found my stomach had recovered from the
RV-7 experience and asked for a rump steak and a red Grapetizer. When the cool
drinks arrived, Lourens asked, 'Which famous people have you looked after?'
more from courtesy than curiosity.

'We sign a confidentiality clause ...' It was my standard
answer, but in Loxton it was interpreted as evasive confirmation that I usually
went around with American movie and pop stars. The truth was that I tried to
avoid the famous as clients. Too much monkey business. So I added: 'I usually
work with foreign businessmen.'

'Oh,' he said, vaguely disappointed.

As we waited for our food, he sat and stared through the
window at the street outside. Stall traders were packing up, hundreds of
pedestrians hurried on their way somewhere. A constant stream of minibus taxis
squeezed past with their roof racks piled high, many of them from Zimbabwe.
People in transit. A border town.

'This is another world here,' he said pensively.

'It is,' I said.

That was the sum total of our conversation.

The lorry was a Mercedes 1528, a six-cylinder diesel with no
seven in sight. No jackpot then.

On the back there was a closed steel structure as high as the
cab and painted grey. It had a variety of access panels and wide rear doors.
Near the top three slot openings ran the length of the body. There were double
wheels behind and single wheels in front.

Inside it was as luxurious as a car. The instrument panel was
of black synthetic leather and grey plastic. There was a shelf for two mugs or
tins on top, a CD player in the middle. Between the two seats was a half-metre
hump at seat height over the engine cowling. Lourens's cellphone and charger
lay on it, with a few CDs. I recognised Metallica and Judas Priest, the rest I
had never heard of: Ihsahn, Enslaved, Arsis.

The diagram on the gear lever showed a grid of eight gears.

We drove out on the tarred R572 with the setting sun directly
in our eyes. Lourens le Riche was a competent driver. His eyes rotated between
the road, the mirrors, the instruments. He drove smoothly, evenly, alert.

I took the Glock out of my bag and looked for a place to hide
it, within easy reach.

Lourens looked at the weapon, but said nothing, until I began
experimenting with the gap between my seat and the engine hump.

'Oom, put it up there.' He pointed at the panels above the
windscreen. There were a variety of storage spaces. Right in front of me was
an open hollow with enough of a lip to hold the weapon if we braked sharply.
Good choice.

'Thanks.'

'What is it, Oom?'

'Glock 37.'

He just nodded.

I took out the MAG-7.

'Jissie
,' said Lourens.

'It was Diederik's idea,' I said, self-consciously.

Lourens laughed. 'Ay, that Oom Diederik,' and shook his head.

'Why does everyone say "Ay, that Diederik"?'

'Oom, he's a character.'

'A character?'

'An old rascal.'

'What do you mean?'

'Don't you know the stories, Oom?'

'No.'

He smiled in anticipation. I had seen the same expression
before on Antjie and Oom Joe's faces, the pleasure that preceded the telling of
a good story. Stories were the social currency of the Karoo. Everyone had one.
Heartbreak, happiness, triumph and disaster, but it was a story that defined,
characterised, gave insight. So different from the stories of city people, now
on Facebook and Twitter, dollied up so that everyone looked good, fake and
crooked, smokescreens and masks.

'Oom Diederik has many sides. The nature conservation, for
instance. He does so much, I don't know of anyone who loves the Karoo more ...
He's very clever too,' said Lourens le Riche. And then reverently: 'As sharp as
a needle ...'

The easiest way
to learn how to track is to have an experienced tracker teach you.

The Basics of
Tracking: Learning to track

He told me the story of the sixteen-ton Toyota Hino
double-decker sheep lorry that Diederik Brand had advertised for sale in the
Farmer's Weekly
for R400,000.

'Three blokes phoned him, and Oom Diederik said the first man
to pay in cash could come and collect the truck. All three of them deposited
the money. Oom Diederik told each of them they could come and collect it. The
first bloke arrived and he took the lorry. When the other two arrived on the
farm, Oom Diederik said, "I'm terribly sorry, but you are too late".
They were angry and Oom Diederik said, "man, it's only business, come,
you've driven a long way, sleep here tonight and enjoy Karoo hospitality on the
house". He organised a feast, and poured a few brandies and told them
stories and jokes the whole evening, and when they were properly drunk he said,
"don't worry, tomorrow I'll give you each a cheque for the full
amount", and they left the best of buddies. A week later the guys phoned
and said the cheques had bounced, where was their money? Oom Diederik said the
bank must have made a mistake, he would give the bank manager hell, he would
send a new cheque immediately. A week later, same story. So it went on for a
month or two, until the men realised they were being taken for a ride, then it
was lawyers' letters and threats. But Oom Diederik knows all the tricks, he
said his statements showed the payment had gone through, or he asked for proof
of the sale contract, of course there was none, because he does everything
verbally. Or he wouldn't answer his phone, he strung them along and earned
interest on the R800,000 for nearly a year, until it ended up in court. Then on
the steps in front of the court, he said, "OK, you can get your money,
without the interest, but then you drop all the charges". The men were so
thankful, they said all right.'

I began to understand why everyone told me to ask for money
up front.

'Clever,' said Lourens le Riche.

Before he could tell me more, his cellphone rang. It was
Nicola wanting to know where we were.

'We will be at the loading point in half an hour,' said
Lourens.

When he had finished talking I asked him: 'What is this
thing's top speed?'

'Depends how heavy the load is, Oom. With game on we drive
slowly, between eighty and ninety.'

Racing away from trouble was not going to be an option.

'What does a rhino weigh?'

'I don't know, Oom.'

'How much can we carry?'

'About twenty tons, Oom. But this load won't come near that.
In total, I estimate we won't load more than five tons tonight.'

My cellphone beeped. It was an SMS from Jeanette Louw, the
standard query this time of the day: 'ALL OK?'

It wouldn't help to saddle her with my frustrations. I replied:
'ALL OK'.

I was expecting a clandestine smuggling rendezvous in the
dark, with people sneaking about and urgent whispering somewhere in the thick
bush. What we got was the brightly lit, busy yard of an irrigation farm on the
banks of the Limpopo River.

A dozen black labourers sat and talked loudly on the concrete
edge of a long steel shed, waiting. On the tailgate of a white Land Cruiser sat
two white men in khaki shorts, khaki-and-green shirts, long socks, short work
boots. As we drove into the yard, they jumped off. One was young, early
twenties, the other well into his forties.