‘I ordered four of them three months ago. Thought they’d be here yesterday Sorry.’
‘Let me guess … still in the mail?’
‘Nothing works in this bloody country any more. I’ve thrown in a canvas dome tent – no extra cost.
There’s a fridge in the back – it works off the car battery – and a crate of cutlery and crockery, a gas cooker, foam mattress, shovel, table and fold-out chairs. I’ve topped up the tank with diesel and you’ve got four full jerrycans. Fully equipped.’
Jed considered arguing about the tent, but he just wanted to get on the road. He studied the dashboard and Howie threw in a few hints about where everything was. ‘Is there a map?’ Jed asked.
Howie pulled a map of Zimbabwe and a Harare street directory from the glove compartment and explained to him how to get out of the city and onto the main road heading north.
‘Follow the signs to Kariba. The road splits at Makuti – Kariba’s to the left and Mana Pools is straight on, but you won’t get to the park before nightfall. You have to register at a place called Marongora and they won’t let you in after dark, so you may as well plan on spending tonight on the lake.’
‘Lake Kariba?’
‘Yes. Try the Lake View Inn. It’s not a bad place to stay. And be careful.’
‘Why does everyone keep saying that to me?’
Jed had seen Land Rovers in Afghanistan. The Australians and British had a few like this one, the commercial version. The Defender was big and square – as aerodynamic as a house brick on wheels.
The roof-rack would do nothing to increase his speed. However, the truck had power steering, and a turbo-diesel engine with a five-speed gearbox, so it moved OK. Jed was used to driving the American Army’s low, squat Hummvees. He found it a pleasant change to be riding high, and there was plenty of legroom in the cab, though it felt strange driving on the other side of the road.
At a stoplight an emaciated man in dark trousers and an off-white business shirt tried to sell him a newspaper with an inflammatory anti-government headline. A car waiting beside him played African music at full volume and he found he quite liked the drums and the beat. Harare, like its airport terminal, had some of the trappings of prosperity, but Jed couldn’t help but feel the place was like a fake Wild West town in a Hollywood back lot – just propped-up façades instead of real buildings and businesses. Here and there he saw a European walking along the sidewalk or driving, though for the most part they tended to be elderly. He’d read enough about Zimbabwe to know that most of the white people who could were leaving the country to start over somewhere else.
An African woman in ragged clothes carrying a tiny baby rapped on his window as he stopped at another red light on a choked main street. He tried to ignore her. At the next intersection was another newspaper seller. This time he saw the headline. WOMAN HAS NARROW ESCAPE FROM MANEATER.
He saw the word
lion
in the first paragraph and wound down his window, fishing in a pocket. All he could find was an American five dollar bill. He handed it to the young man.
‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t have change for this.’
‘Keep it,’ Jed said as he grabbed the paper and accelerated. The man was wide-eyed.
Jed tried to read as he drove. The attack had happened in Mana Pools National Park, the day before. He wondered whether it could have been the same lion that had supposedly killed Miranda.
He finally escaped the blue-smoke fog of the choked city centre and took a turn towards Kariba.
Outside of town he recognised a large roundabout from the directions Howie had given him and saw, to his left, a sprawling suburban shopping mall. A uniformed security guard handed him a plastic laminated card as he passed under the centre’s boom gate. He pulled into the first available car space, some distance away from the two-storey white stucco complex.
Jed unfolded the newspaper and read.
A National Parks employee narrowly escaped death yesterday when she was attacked by a lion at Mana Pools National Park. A National Parks spokesman said Precious Mpofu was walking home to the staff village when the lion pounced on her and mauled her leg. Mrs Mpofu’
s life was saved
by the quick actions of ranger Lloyd Nkomo and a visiting academic, Professor Christine Wallis.
The lion was shot and killed and Mrs Mpofu was transported to hospital in Kariba. Her condition is listed as stable. National Parks have initiated an investigation into the shooting of the lion and will attempt to establish if the animal was also responsible for the killing of a young American scientific researcher last week
.
Jed felt the hair rise on the back of his neck at the reference to his daughter in the cheap newsprint. He had nearly convinced himself that Miranda could somehow still be alive, and seeing the newspaper refer to her death so bluntly was a rude shock. And there was the reference to Professor Wallis. That also surprised him as he had assumed the scientist who had despatched his daughter to this godforsaken country was still in South Africa. At least there was now a good chance of them meeting face to face.
Jed wondered how the Zimbabwean National Parks authorities would ‘establish if the animal was responsible’ for the death of his daughter. It was too gruesome to contemplate, even for a man who had seen death in many violent forms.
There were more white faces inside the shopping centre and the Africans looked well dressed and affluent. He checked a map of the mall and found a camping store. The shop was an outdoorsman’s dream come true and smelled of canvas and gun oil.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ the bearded giant behind the counter asked.
‘I need a hunting knife, and some web gear or a vest. What’s the policy on gun ownership in this country?’
‘Ah, you’re American. It’s not like in the States, sir. Our Government takes a dim view of people like … well, white people, to put it bluntly, owning too many weapons. Where are you headed?’
‘Mana Pools.’
‘To the National Park? You can’t take a weapon in there. They’ll shoot you on sight, chum. Only the rangers can carry firearms in the park.’
The man’s accent sounded to Jed like a cross between the guttural English of an Afrikaner and an Englishman.
‘Fine, then just give me the knife.’
The man showed Jed a range of edged weapons in a glass cabinet. Jed selected a hunting knife with a wickedly sharp eight-inch blade. He didn’t know exactly what he would be trying to hunt with it, but it made him feel better to have a weapon of some sort. He went to the clothing section of the shop and picked out a green canvas hunter’s vest. The pockets on the front were big enough to hold a couple of magazines for an assault rifle – if he’d had one. He threw the vest on the counter and asked for a map of the Zambezi Valley.
It was after one in the afternoon when Jed surrendered his parking pass and headed out of the mall and back onto the main road north. The driving was easy, once he got used to being on the left-hand side of the road. It was pretty countryside, but most of the farming land looked idle. Here and there were stretches of wheat, waving in the gentle afternoon breeze, but more often than not he saw only weedy half-tilled fields. He’d read about the redistribution of land away from white farmers to Africans, but it didn’t look to him as though anyone was doing too well out of that process.
The succession of farming towns he rolled through looked tired and dusty. People thronged the streets but there seemed to be a general lack of purpose to their ambling. Too many idle youths, most of them males, stared at the shiny Land Rover with envious eyes.
He swerved and swore when a shiny new black Mercedes barely made it back into the oncoming lane after overtaking a donkey cart driven by two young boys in cast-off shirts and ragged shorts. The boys waved at him as he passed. Here were the extremes of Africa – the businessman or government functionary in his limousine, the children on the cart, visible in his rear-view mirror, pulling up beside a roadside trash bin to supplement their meagre diet. He shook his head. It had been the same in Afghanistan. Warlords – or regional leaders, as they preferred to be called these days – growing fat on the proceeds of opium and marijuana while ordinary people starved and struggled to rebuild their war-torn lives.
He stopped in a town called Chinhoyi to refuel his vehicle and himself. He bought two chicken pies and a Coke in an old-fashioned glass bottle while he waited for the driveway attendant to top up the tank. The pies were cold and the soft drink warm, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t in Zimbabwe to sample its culinary delights. He wanted to make Kariba by nightfall, but when he checked his watch and his map, he reckoned that would be a long shot.
‘What’s the road like down to Kariba?’ he asked the attendant.
‘Ah, sir, that is a very winding road,’ the young man said as he peeled off Jed’s change in grimy one-hundred-dollar notes. ‘Very many animals. Be careful if you are driving at night.’
‘Animals?’
‘Yes, sir. Elephant, buffalo, zebra, leopard, maybe even lion.’
‘I didn’t know Kariba was inside a national park.’
‘No sir, it is not. It is a wildlife area, though. Kariba has much wildlife, but it has no fences, no rules. It is a wild place, sir.’
The shadows were lengthening as Jed pushed on northwards, past some well-tended orchards and more straggly-looking fields of carelessly planted corn. It was not how he had pictured Africa. He had imagined either wide-open savanna grasslands or equatorial jungle, not a poor man’s version of the Midwest. The people seemed friendly enough, although every now and then he would pass a young male who stared sullenly at him.
He reached the turn-off to Kariba as the tip of the red sun disappeared behind the hills to his left.
He switched his headlights to full beam as he took the winding road down off the escarpment into the Zambezi Valley. The sign had said it was seventy-three kilometres to Kariba. There were no lights at all on either side of the road, just rolling tree-covered hills and valleys. He wound down the window and switched off the airconditioning, hoping the night air would help keep him awake. As he descended he felt the humidity and temperature rise, despite the fact that it was now dark.
Suddenly Jed saw a movement in the corner of his eye, off to the left side of the road, and he stood on the brakes. A tiny antelope leaped into the beam of his headlights, paused in the glare for a second and then skittered away to the other side of the road. He put the truck into first and carried on, a little slower, his eyes roaming left and right in search of other game.
For half an hour he saw nothing unusual and he started to speed up again. The moon was beginning to rise, and every now and then he would catch a glimpse of the wide man-made lake in the distance.
It took him a couple of seconds to realise something was not right.
It was the road. The white line running down the centre had suddenly disappeared, as though the paint had run out when the road workers were marking it. Then the line became visible again. Jed blinked and then braked hard as the massive black shape reared up in front of him.
‘Fuck!’
It was an elephant. It had stopped in the middle of the road and its great bulk had blocked out the centre line. Jed turned the wheel to avoid slamming into the huge beast. He skidded to a halt on the dirt verge. He rammed the gearstick into reverse as the elephant raised its trunk and stuck out its great sail-like ears.
The animal trumpeted, so loud that it seemed the Land Rover was vibrating with the noise. Jed stood on the accelerator and the vehicle zigzagged backwards as he overcorrected left and right with the steering wheel. The beast was coming towards him, still blowing shrill angry notes and shaking its massive head.
Jed had been looking over his shoulder to make sure there was nothing behind him. He looked forward again and saw the elephant had stopped. It looked to the left and then to the right and then straight at him. As he watched, stupefied, a baby elephant emerged from the bush to the left. It barely reached the underbelly of the big one. It paused for a second, looking in his direction, its wriggly trunk flopping wildly as it tried to sniff the air. The adult, which he guessed was the mother, nudged the youngster with her trunk and the pair of them carried on across the road.
He stayed parked for a full five minutes and counted fourteen of the gigantic creatures cross the road in front of him. It was an awe-inspiring experience and he realised, with sadness, that he wished he had someone there to share it with. Most of all, he wished Miranda was with him. This was the sort of thing he had hoped to experience with her on his planned visit. He edged the vehicle forwards and watched the last of the massive baggy-skinned rumps disappearing into the gloomy undergrowth.
His heart was heavy as he changed gear and drove on.
The winking lights of Kariba were a welcome sight and he stopped for directions to the Lake View Inn at a gas station on the edge of a steep drop that overlooked the lake. Even at night he could get a feeling for the immensity of the man-made inland sea. Out on the water he saw bright pinpricks of light, which he assumed were fishing boats. Jed was exhausted after his long journey. All he wanted was a beer, a steak and a bed.
The hotel had a nineteen-sixties feel about it – flagstone floors, and a mix of heavy dark timber framing and asbestos sheet walls. The rooms were arranged in long flat-roofed buildings set above each other in tiers on the side of the steep slope overlooking the lake. The place seemed to Jed like a twenty-five dollar a night Midwestern roadside motel with a million-dollar view.
In the lobby he was greeted by a smiling African woman. ‘How much for a room, please?’ he asked.
‘Where are you from, sir?’
‘The United States.’
The rate she quoted was about ten times what he had expected. ‘What?’ he exclaimed.
‘There is a different rate for foreigners, sir, and you must pay in foreign currency, not Zimbabwe dollars.’ She shrugged and gave him a sympathetic smile, as though she didn’t necessarily agree with the policy.