Trackers (18 page)

Lourens stopped. We climbed out. The white men approached.
'Lourens?' asked the older, and stretched out his hand.

'That's me, Oom.'

'Wickus Swanepoel,' he pronounced the 'W' as a 'V', 'and this
is my son, Swannie.'

'And this is Oom Lemmer ...'

We shook hands. They were two big men with
five-o'clock-shadows, farmers' tans, identical snub noses, and bushy eyebrows.
Pa Wickus's leather belt was slung low to accommodate a beer belly.

'Their truck is waiting at the border, over there,' he said,
and pointed north. 'Are you ready?'

'Yes, we're ready, Oom.'

Wickus looked at his son. 'Tell them they can come. Make sure
they have deflated the tyres. And that they know about the poles.'

Swannie took a cellphone out of his shorts pocket and phoned.
His father said, 'We thought it better to wait for dark before they came
across. Just in case.'

Just in case, I thought. Diederik's words.

The son was talking on the cellphone: 'Cornel, you can come
across, they are here. Have you let air out of your tyres?'

'Turn your truck around so long,' Wickus said to Lourens.
'And open the back doors.'

'Right, Oom,' Lourens said. 'How long will it take?'

'They are just here, across the river, in the orchards on the
Zim side. If they don't get stuck in the bloody sand they will be here
now-now.'

Lourens got into the Mercedes.

'They're coming, Pa,' said Swannie, the son.

'Did you tell them to look out for the marker poles?'

'No, Pa. But they say they can see our lights.'

'No, oh
Koot,
that's just
like a woman, the lights won't help fuck all if they don't watch the markers.'

'Don't worry, Pa.'

Lourens turned the Mercedes around so the nose pointed back
in the direction we had come. Wickus Swanepoel walked over to where the
labourers sat talking. He gave orders in their language. They stood up and came
closer. Wickus gave more orders and pointed at some thick metal bars that lay
in the doorway of the shed. Half of the labourers went over and got them.

Lourens switched off the Mercedes, jumped down and slid open
the bolts of the rearmost grey steel doors.

'I hear they have a Bedford, might be a little lower than
your load bed, if so we will get out the pulleys,' said Wickus.

'I hear them, Pa,' said Swannie.

The rumble of a diesel engine could be heard out of the
darkness, at high revs.

'Oh hell,' said Wickus, 'I hope the bugger knows how to drive
in sand.'

Lourens came closer. We stood four in a row, eyes to the
north in the direction of the noise. 'Sand is loose this time of year,' said
Wickus. 'Soft. Powder. River is dry. If they haven't let down the tyres they
will get stuck. Then we're stuffed.'

'Don't worry, Pa.'

'Someone has to
fokken
worry.'

'Listen, they're through.'

The engine's revs were lower now, more controlled.

'So why doesn't he put his lights on?'

'Don't worry, Pa.'

'Stop saying that to me.'

'But we don't have to worry, Pa. We have all the permits this
side.'

'Those people still have to bugger off back to Zim tonight,
and they don't have papers.'

Then we saw the lorry, an old Bedford, appear out of the dark
at the furthest extent of the lighted circle.

'Thank God,' said Wickus Swanepoel. 'It's an old RL.'

'Pa?'

'Was about the only Bedford with four-wheel drive,' his
father said, as the lorry stopped in front of us. It looked like an old
military vehicle, the green paint bleached and worn, but there was nothing
wrong with the engine. A black driver sat behind the wheel, yellow vest,
muscular arms, cigarette in mouth.

The passenger door opened. A woman jumped down lightly. She
ignored us, moved straight to the back of the vehicle, which was covered by a
dirty grey tarpaulin. She began untying ropes.

'Hell's bells!' said Pa Wickus, fervent, but under his
breath. Because at first sight she was spectacular. Shoulders, arms and legs
had the muscular definition of an athlete. Pitch black hair pulled back in a
careless ponytail, the neck long and elegant, a fine sheen of perspiration on
the honey skin, her face dominated by strong, high cheekbones. Lara Croft of
the Limpopo, in boots, tight khaki shorts, and a sleeveless white T-shirt that
clearly displayed her generous breasts.

'Cornel?' asked Swannie, the son. He sounded overjoyed to
connect the voice on the telephone with this apparition.

She looked at him. 'Come and help,' she ordered.

Swannie didn't move at once. 'Flea?' he asked astonished.
'Flea van Jaarsveld?'

She bristled. 'I don't know you.'

'We were in primary school together,' said Swannie, with a
tone of deep gratitude that he had a connection to her. '
Jissie
, Flea, you've changed.'

'My name's Cornel. Are you going to help, or just stand there
looking?' she said, and turned her attention back to removing the tarpaulin.

'Man,
it's so great to see you again.' And Swannie went right over to help her.

In order to
study spoor, one must inevitably go to places where one will most likely
encounter wild and often dangerous animals.

The Basics of
Tracking: Dangerous animals

Flea van Jaarsveld, rhino tamer.

She orchestrated the removal of the tarpaulin with an
irritated voice and self-important air, as though her responsibility were
greater than we could comprehend. She looked disapprovingly at me, where I
stood watching with my arms folded, a look that said I too should help. That
was when I saw that close-up her beauty was flawed, the impact of the whole
more impressive than the parts. The set of the lines of her mouth was somewhat
mean, the jaw was a fraction too weak. What saved these features from coldness
was the tiny flaw in her left eye, a nick in the lower lid like a tear. It
softened everything with a hint of melancholy.

They rolled the big sail off the flatbed of the Bedford,
exposing two massive steel cages fitted tightly together. There were only
millimetres between the rear flap of the Bedford and the second cage. The
rhinos were shrouded in shadows, two chunky, restless shapes behind iron bars.

'I need light here,' Flea commanded, and pointed at the
animals.

Young Swannie, suddenly the highly efficient young farmer,
sprang into action, barking orders at the workmen.

She clambered back into the cabin of the Bedford, calf
muscles flexing, sure movements, full of confidence and focus. When she came
down there was a leather case in her hand, the impractical kind that doctors
carried as a status symbol. This one had seen some mileage. She swung it onto
the back of the Bedford, stepped on the rear wheel and climbed up after it.

'Where's the light?'

'It's coming,' said Swannie.

She checked the chunky watch on her slender arm, pressed
buttons on it. Swannie came trotting up with a hunting spotlight, the beam like
a searchlight in the night sky. He held it out to her.

'Get up,' she said, her attention on the opened case.

He grinned at his good fortune at being chosen, nodded
eagerly, and climbed onto the lorry.

In that moment I saw Lourens le Riche. He stood beside the
Bedford. His eyes were fixed on her, an expression of utter fascination on his
face.

'Shine here,' she said to Swannie, and pointed at the first
cage. She took a syringe and a bottle of liquid out of the case. The needle on
the syringe was short and thick.

I came closer to see. The spotlight lit up the foremost
rhino. The animal was blindfolded. Bundled material protruded from one ear and
hung down over the blindfold. The rhino moved uneasily, stamped a leg on the steel
floor, bumped its head against the bars. The skin was lighter than I had
imagined, dull grey and deeply textured in the bright lighting, covered with a
rash of pinky-red, septic growths on the neck, over the back and the butt of
the creature. The growths glistened, wet and sickly.

'Hell's bells!' said Wickus Swanepoel, observing the activity
from beside the Bedford. 'What's wrong with them?'

Flea drew liquid from the bottle with the syringe.
'Necrolytic Dermatitis, in the festering stage.'

'You're a vet,' said Swannie, with huge respect.

'Can they die of these sores?' his father asked.

'It usually occurs along with anaemia and gastrointestinal
disorders,' she said. 'That is where the danger lies.'

'Hell!' said Wickus.

She pressed the syringe into the rhino's rump, behind and
above the powerful thighs. 'They're very weak, very stressed. We can't waste
time. Can you shove that sock back in the ear?'

'That's a sock?'

'The only use for a Stormers rugby sock. Dulls sound. Keeps
them calm.'

'Well, I never. Sounds like you're a Bulls fan,' said Wickus
from below, very happy. 'Just like us.'

She picked up her bag and moved to the second cage. We stood
as one man and watched her neat little bottom.

'What are you injecting?' asked Swannie.

'Azaperone. Hundred and fifty milligrams. It keeps them calm,
helps with the negative physiological effects of the M99.'

'OK,' Swannie said again, with boundless awe.

And Lourens le Riche stood and stared at her like a buck
caught in blinding headlights.

The transfer operation took over an hour, fifteen men
sweating, pulling, lifting, putting the cage down and moving it centimetre by
centimetre from the Bedford into the load bed of the Mercedes. Wickus organised
the labour, in language that was appreciably more socially acceptable now. Flea
berated us for the rest of our labours with the minimum words and the maximum
scowling. Until Lourens pushed the doors shut and slid the bolts.

Flea walked quickly over to him. 'You're the driver to the
Karoo.'

'Lourens,' he said, and put out his hand.

She ignored it, wiped the sweat from her forehead with the
back of her left hand, walked over to the passenger door of the Mercedes and
said, 'Right, let's go.'

That was the first indication that she was coming along.

We got away at twenty to ten. Flea threw a blood-red travel
bag and the doctor's bag in the cab, climbed up after them, and made herself at
home in the passenger seat. As I climbed up after her, she looked at me. 'Are
you coming too?' Not exactly jubilant about the possibility.

'This is Oom Lemmer,' was all that Lourens
said. Then he took out two big soft cushions and put
them over the hump between the two seats, stowed her baggage, arranged the
cushions properly, one on her seat and one behind her back.

The Swanepoels stood outside, beside my window, with eyes
only for her. 'You know where we are now, Cornel. Come and visit,' Wickus
Swanepoel called out hopefully. Beside him, his son approved the invitation
with a vigorously nodding head, the bushy brows raised high in enthusiasm. Then
they waved one last time and we drove away into the darkness.

Her scent drifted through the cab of the Mercedes, an
interesting blend of soap, shampoo and sweat. She sat with her legs tucked up,
arms wrapped around her knees, her body language showing she was dissatisfied,
that she didn't have the luxury of personal space and a proper seat.

Lourens called Nicola, said we were on our way.

Flea consulted the digital watch on her arm. 'Between half past
one and two I have to inject them again,' she instructed Lourens.

I sat and waited for his reaction. How would a Karoo boy
handle this ... phenomenon?

He took papers out of his door panel and handed them to her,
his movements slow and measured. 'The top one is the route book, the lower one
is a map. By two o'clock we should be 300 kilometres from here, maybe a bit
more ...'

She took them in silence, lowered her legs, and studied the uppermost
document, a white sheet of paper with columns of places and distances. She
unfolded the map and compared the two, her slender finger finding direction on
the spider web of roads over Vaalwater, Rustenburg, Ventersdorp ... until she
looked up at him. I couldn't see her face, but I could hear the frown in her
voice: 'This is one helluva obscure route. Why don't we just take the Nl?'

For the first time I saw the ghostly line of an old scar on
her neck. It curled from below her left ear and under her hair, a fine pattern
like the outline of a bird's wing, only one shade lighter than her skin.

'Oom Diederik wants us to stay off the main routes. And ...'

'Why?' Sharp and accusatory.