08: Kafue – The Book of Gideon (Vultures)

Chapter 8:          Vultures

The horizontal orientation of the continent of Europe has allowed the undulating waves of culture, like the fulcrum of a see-saw, to sway its ideas east and west for hundreds, if not thousands of years. However, the vertical gradient of Africa has dribbled northern culture and ideas down over the Sahara like an hour glass, ever since Vasco De Gama set it on the shelf of history. Only recently has modern travel flipped that measure, so that the colorful soul of Africa is trickling up to patina the paler surfaces of the world.

But as is often the case in the aftermath of uninvited mingling, the progeny of cultural chaos does not care about its origins, as long as they have a loving caring mother. Africa has always been the mother of mankind, a mother who has been pillaged and raped so often by arrogantly uncaring outsiders that nobody particularly cares.

As the first faintest tinge of dawn’s orange threatened to pushaway the confetti of stars strewn across the nights indigo, I thought about what the old priest said. It was motherhood that mattered most. Unlike fatherhood, there is never a doubt about motherhood.

I couldn’t help pondering the issue. Moses hadn’t known his mother, yet he was a child of Africa. I, on the other hand had known mine, but wasI a child of this continent. Was it rape that got in the way? A rape had ultimately slipped between him and his mother. Was it the rape of this continent by my colonial forebeareres that slipped between me and my Africa.

 However, preparing to leave, these thoughts were scattered by the ping of a text message, followed closely by another, as I walked towards the mission office and its internet hub.

‘Two elephant carcasses found, tusks hacked out. A scout is missing.’

It was from Dimas, the lead of one of the scouting teams or ‘sticks’ I was training.

I could not see the blue gray of the old man’s eyes in the pre-dawn dimness as we sat at his simple ceramic table and waited for the kettle to boil, but I could make out the manner of his gaze, under his bushy eyebrows, focusing its unblinking attention on my face.

“Tell me about your work” the old priest said. “We’ve talked about your friend, and I have told you about his early years. But what about you? What do you actually do? How did you get the job?”

“As you know father.” I said, “Like everywhere in the world anyone who is over 50 years old and has spent most of his life honing skills no longer necessary in civilian life, has a hard time finding work.”

Outside the sounds of activity and voices gradually filled the air as the mission came to life.

“I’m lucky to have found this job. I’m even luckier that I was given a work permit for this country. As you know these days in the safari business, they are many young well-educated, well spoken and culturally versatile Africans. They are more than capable of providing great guiding services to high-paying clients. Add to that black empowerment makes it extremely difficult for an older white guy, like me, to get a job in this industry.”

The old man raised his hand to stop me speaking as he rose and walked into a separate room from whence he returned with two tin mugs. I watched as he ladled in the instant coffe, and powdered milk before pouring in the hot water. He handed me one of the mugs together with a bowl of sugar lumps.

“I got the job because I’m friendly with the manager of the trust running my program. Because it is a private concern, who they employ is not quite as tightly regulated as those in government.

The organization gives specialized law enforcement training to the scouts.

I’ve been doing this for two years. My problem is that the main funders are Germans, and they want metrics. They want to see certain minimum numbers graduating from my courses. But we are not in charge of the scheduling for the training. Thus, every now and again a scout is pulled off the course to do something else, which leaves a gap in our success metrics. The Germans don’t like that. But there’s nothing I can do about it, scheduling and roster issues are determined by the head warden at the main base at Chunga.

Up until now I’ve managed to squeak by. However there is a new CEO of our main funding corporation. he apparently is even more driven by metrics than the others. He wants to see minimum increases in game counts to prove that what I’m doing is bearing results. So it is a race against the poachers, in a game where I don’t set the rules. I can train the scouts, but I cannot decide where they are deployed. I cannot determine which areas are better guarded, so that the game counts increase where the Germans are providing the funding.

Thus I never really know what is happening in my future. Right now I love what I do and where I am. But if I lose my job who knows? I guess I will have to go back to be a poor white begging at the corner of some intersection in Durban.

Thus you can understand why I’m concerned about witchcraft in the area of my operations. I cannot afford to have any of my charges get scared and leave. If my results don’t please the funders, my job will be on the line. At this stage of life my chances of getting another gig like this are slim.”

With that I tossed back the last gulp of coffee and reached over to shake the priests hand.

The drive back from the western edge of the country is a long arduous affair, full of flat monotony. It is made even more uninteresting by the fingers of human occupation, which have scratched away the original vegetation like the hair on a mangy dog.

However, anyone knowing birdlife, and keeping their eyes open seldom finds anywhere in Africa monotonous. I spotted a huge Kori Bustard striding through the grass near the road. Then there was the beauty of the Lilac Breasted Rollers. To distract my thoughts of the elephants and scout, I counted how many were waiting for a passing vehicle to flush a grass-hopper. The sighting of a pair of Lanner Falcons also helped to divert the tickle of my anxiety.

I had left the mission as the sun peered over the horizon, after that last hot mug of coffee and a slice of toast with Father Xavier. Now only three hours later, the road ahead was already breaking up into shivering aqueous ripples by the refraction of the hot air.

It was going to be a long, hot journey.

But I could not shake the niggle of apprehension. It had been two years since an elephant was poached in the area. So why now. Add to that the disappearance of the scout. This couldn’t be the absence in the wake of a booze binge. That was too regular to merit mention. Why all this at the same time as the appearance of the Crocodile man?

As I drove, I noticed that there were more huts clustering along the roadway for convenience, than when I was here a few years back. How they stretched away into the distance on each side, and were fed by the arteries of dirt tracks spreading out like the varicose veins on the cheeks of a drunkard.

These untidy little clusters always come with their symbionts, maybe a few sporadic cows to supplement the goats and ubiquitous chickens scuffling between the bristles of subsistence corn clinging to the barren soil. Long gone is the canopy of trees, whose leaves provided the shade and fallen mulch which for millions of years caressed the soil. Instead, like the flat, wizened breasts of an old woman, after decades of monotonous childbirth and monoculture, all of the flush and fertility of life has been suckled out of it.

It is definitely not the mythical images promoted in the glossy tourist brochures, but it is what much of Africa has become in my lifetime.

I wondered why I bothered fighting for what was left of this land. What did the old priest say, we all need a good mother? Was not the land the ultimate matriarch? And if so, was it not mine as much as it was the mother of all those who lived in the huts straggling away on each side of my progress?

As I headed back to the heart of my struggle, in addition to noticing the specks of nature’s beauty, my mind was clouded with worries about poaching and missing men. Also, I surreptitiously engaged with a ghost. It was triggered by the other text message. It arrived surprisingly and unexpectedly, on a day which no less strangely, was my birthday.

Tantalizingly elusive, I had hunted that ghost for thirty years, and like the rest of the old Africa that I loved and wanted to preserve, it had been part of that dream and hopes of a future.

“Hi, Is it u? I am younger and older now”.

I am not a religious person, but the timing of this reappearance seemed as ordained as it was unsettling.

Maybe Father Xavier had insight into spiritual realities, and maybe so did Precious, with the necklace of snail-shell “muti” around her throat.

Now, under the glare of a sun at its zenith, I savored those ghostly words as I stood in the middle of the hook bridge over the Kafue River. I always stop after crossing the bridge, then walk back to its center to stand looking down at the slow eddies of the water. There is something deeply relaxing, even hypnotic to watch the roll of the river as it passes below my feet.

Here, I like to leisurely eat my sandwich, and sip the cup of hot sweet coffee from my thermos flask.

Three decades! Looking down at the river I wondered how much water had passed under the bridge in that time period. It’s a long time, and yet it is nothing. For thirty years, like the fantasy of returning to an unspoiled place, the ghost of a girl has walked beside me. Sophia always lurked at the edge of my awareness.

In the warm humid coastal evening air of that far-away place and time, it had been for a brief hour that we sat side by side on a bench in a city garden. There, amidst the floral opulence, unknowingly for the last time, we touched and spoke, we laughed and embraced. I beheld her magnificence. Then, with a hug, a kiss and a casual ‘See you soon,’ we parted.

Over the decades since, I have often wondered if she remembered me, what became of me, as I did of her. If I had made the hindsightly correct, utterly agonizing choice, and returned in time, today I would believe in love, destiny and faithfulness. It would all be so obvious and easy. But a war intervened. If it had not I would probably be blander, more boring, a believer in constancy.

But, as she had once done with our togetherness, with ten texted words, she poured the past back into my mind.

I guess, in mental limbo, the toying with my imaginary maiden has condemned me to be the footloose, mentally motherless wanderer that I am.

The memory of her visage has faded. Even if I could conjure it up, time has probably worked its weathering. Today I would surely pass her unrecognized in the street.

Over the years I have occasionally played with my lost recollections. Sometimes I have her hair tied in a bob, with her neck extended. At others I have its ginger tint tied over in a Dutch braid… In my mind I can make her whoever I want… Maybe I will recognize her… stranger things have happened…

And yet, even though I have not heard it for thirty years, I remember the lilt of her voice as clearly as the calls of the doves which croon above my tent today.

And when I fashion it with my fingers the clay of the river talks to me, maybe I will recognize her in the mud in my hands.

The text’s stretched across the old ‘then’, and the ‘new’ now spanning three decades, as surely as the bridge spanned the river. But unlike the dried up nurturing of our hopes, the water of the river keeps flowing beneath my feet.

Africa carries me ever onwards.






Space and time according to Einstein are linked, Left is to right, is to up, is to down, is to the when which provides the perceptions of our memories. The past and future are part of the same left/right, up/down thing, and the present is where we are in time when we happen to open our eyes. And if we did this fast enough, time would stop and matter turn infinitely heavy, as it melts into and becomes one with gravity.

With the hot azure of the huge sky above, I could feel a ghost beside me reaching across space and time. This is Africa, and here the spirits are everywhere at all times, not just in the haunted darkness of the night or a person’s imagination.

The size of the sky above us, (me and my imaginary ghost that is), was enhanced by the flatness of the unfettered perspective when viewed from the center of the bridge, because out here over the water there is little to obscure the vista in any direction. It was as if the heat of the sun directly above, glaring down on the river, had melted away the lumps in the landscape.

Looking over the dull muddy turquoise of the waters, the river flowed towards me, and if I turned around, it flowed away, like time.

As I stood on the bridge, I  squinted to cut down the midday glare reflecting off the water. All I saw was the huge flat horizon. Like the rip of a tide, it cut across my perception, stretching seemingly forever with its left and right, it’s before and behind and with the ripples of the Bush below and the sky above.

How could I not be imprinted with all this raw African bonanza? Like a hypnotized zombie it drew me onwards and into itself.

Africa is about its animals, and not the spirits of its dead. But it was its morticians which I detected as I stood philosophizing in the middle of the bridge. Mere specks in the sky. Less than a handful. Distributed vertically in a loose slowly twisting column, gaining altitude in the updraft of a powerful thermal, so prevalent on a hot African day, such that when I raised my binoculars the spec at the top had risen three thousand feet above the tree canopy, whereupon it peeled off to drift north in a flat shallow glide, occasionally giving a dipping wing beat. A signal to others that food was nigh.


Following its flight with my binoculars, I picked up the next column, and in the direction of my scan, another pillar of circling birds, so distant that it was barely visible even with the magnification.

The birds were on the march. Somewhere far away to the north was a food bonanza. They were gliding across the bush using thermal elevators.

I slowly scanned the skies in every direction. Sure enough off to the east towards Mumbwa, was another thermal column and another progressive avian line heading to where they could join the final frenzy. I wondered if they’d spotted an elephant carcass.

Most of them would be White-Backed’s. They are the commonest in this area. A pair had a nest in a tall tree above the dirt road that led upstream from my campsite.

There was a noticeably larger bird in the nearest group. A Lappet- Faced who would dominate the feast for a while. The column was too far to pick out the smaller more delicate Hooded variety.

The closest pillar moved slowly nearer, pushed along by the same breeze as made the tall dry elephant grass nod and sway in unison with its eddies. It was dynamic. The birds at the top peeled off out of the spiral. They were replaced by others approaching from the opposite side, in a well-spaced almost direct line. With a sharp left bank of their huge wings they slotted into position at the bottom of the vortex, a few hundred feet above the trees.

Observing these vulture’s circling so effortlessly, ignoring gravity as they spread across space and time with impunity, allowed an appreciation of their highly evolved complexity. Their niche required them to get up high in the sky, to stay there for a long time, almost effortlessly, enabling their incredible vision to seek the dead or dying. They needn’t get anywhere fast. Their feast will not run away.

I let my binoculars hang on the strap around my neck. Space, time and gravity. God does not play dice with the universe. But with these vultures maybe there is one who does. No bird in history has, or is, disappearing off the face of the earth as fast as they.

Both wardens and poachers would be watching. Maybe it was this stream of birds which had alerted Dimas. Any poacher who kills an elephant, and creates a vulture feast, would also know the birds could alert the warden. Maybe that poacher, if he had access to poison, would taint the carcass with the chemical, so that there would not be future vultures to alert the wardens of nefariousness.

But that isn’t the only dark cloud on the horizon of these magnificent creatures.

The business of independent Africa is conducted by Africans. For many the witchcraft of the shamans still holds its powerful undercurrent.

All over Africa, hidden away in backstreet shops or warehouses, are the bush-meat and muti markets, where the totems, giving luck to almost any endeavor, are found. Crocodile heads, leopard skins, lines teeth, pangolin scales, owls’ talons, hyena snouts, Jackals fur. And, of course, one of the most sought after, vulture’s heads, with their power of sight sparking the belief they will enable the possessor to see into the future. A clear benefit for any aspiring politician, business person, or anyone who can afford such a totem.

I turned to walk back towards the vehicle.

Three decades seems an eternity. But in the up down left right relativity of their flight, and my search, that is the time it has taken for these gracious gravity defying birds circling above to quietly disappear, and my ghost to reappear.

A ghost! I wondered if it had the eyesight of a vulture, and if so it could help me look into my future, or at least look to see where I could find Moses.

 Sheeesh, I was letting the bush get to me… a ghost? I would banish it from my mind.






Like an out-of-control soccer riot, the less aggressive stood scattered around the periphery with their bright beady eyes scanning the scramble in swiveling heads, while waiting for an opportunity to hop forward into the epicenter of activity, where the fracas was most active, with birds pecking, pushing and jostling each other aside, some with open wings to intimidate and others too focused on how to dig their heads into the stench of rotting flesh to tear off a bountiful beak-full of putrid flesh.

In the midst of this chaos a hyena was standing like a half-hearted referee trying to reestablish order by unconvincingly baring its teeth or making an effortless lunch at any bird which pushed up against it. Every so often it lost interest in the boil of birds. Then it would shove its head through a hole in the thick gray hide still stretched across the dead elephant’s rib-cage. Crawling deeper into the cavernous chest space, so that only its tugging haunches were visible, it would rip free the harder to get at morsels of flesh and sinews lodged between the ribs themselves.

The chitters and excited chuckles of the avian crowd was under-pinned by the hum of the myriad clouds of flies who’s wings sounded like a huge swarm of bees. It was doubtful if their maggots would have time to hatch and consume the putrid meat before the horde of scavengers finished off all that was in this banquet.

Wandering in and out of the crowd were three more hyena whose bloated bellies indicated why they were no longer interested in the carcass and the frenzy over and around it.. With pricked ears and heads looking out into the bush beyond the scrum, it seemed they were more concerned with a possible appearance of a lion.

However at this stage that was unlikely. The tracks of lion and leopard were visible in the peripheral sand which had not yet been trampled into a dustbowl around the carcass by the scrabbling feet of both birds and beasts. Aany remaining meat was probably now too tainted even for the palate of the lions.

At the far edge of the crowd a few marabou stalks stood like old retired school masters looking disdainfully down there long thick beaks at the unruly mob before them. I wondered why they even bothered to show up.

The wretched elephant had obviously been wounded by the poachers, because we could see where the skin at the back of its head was hacked open with a bush-axe so that it spine could also be chopped apart, ending its writhing’s. The poachers either didn’t want to waste precious ammunition, or didn’t want to risk anyone noticing another shot.

To get at its tusks, the whole front of its face was hacked off, leaving its pitiful eye-sockets staring emptily out across the blunt mash of flesh where it once had a trunk. .

Four hours earlier, I had turned off the Great West Road onto the short tar stretch that leads into and through Mumbwa. I once again headed past the tall steeple of its mosque, and its untidy pavement markets and store-fronts, , until I turned past the grubby entrance to a hotel, the oldest in the country, half hidden behind the screen of its big exotic trees. Here I turned off onto the dirt road that led to the ZAWA building, where I was sure to find Ernest. This time I wanted to follow up on the terse text of poached elephants and a missing scout.

Ernest was in his office, ready to be entertained with a few more steak and kidney pies. He was willing to make time for me. Nothing wrong with that!

Thus once again, after the pies and sodas, coated with the donation of another jerry can of diesel, I found myself following his dilapidated white government Cruiser along the road towards the Lubungu Pontoon. He had magnanimously offered to show me one of the poaching sites himself.

I appreciated the inexpensiveness of his friendship!

It was not long after we had dipped down into the Kafue Valley, through the thick thorny bush below the shallow rim of the basin , that he had turned off the dirt road to folllow the track of a vehicle already blazed into a rough trail through the long grass and dense shrubbery layered under tall trees. The tracks were his, from his prior trip.

Even though our progress was slow, it took less than a half hour to reach the site. I had to grant the poacher’s their audaciousness of killing an elephant so close to the road.

The jostle of avian activity only really came to an end when our two vehicles were within meters of the shambles.

As we exited and walked towards the carcass the rush of wings of nearly 100 birds taking to the air sounded like the approach of a freight train. Some had trouble getting into the air with such meat laden crops.

I joined Ernest and is too accompanying scouts, as we scuttled across to the northeast side of the action with the same alacrity as the birds had taken to the air. The best side to get upwind of and minimize the retch inducing stench that clung to the scene.

We didn’t stay long. Ernest said that the poachers’ tracks had departed in a northeasterly direction, which suggested they were based in the tribal area beyond the private hunting concession adjacent to the park.

He also told me that initially on finding the carcass Dimas had tasked one of the scouts to return to Mumbwa to report the incident. But after a day not having any response from HQ, another Scout had been sent to again head in to report.

There was still no sign of the first scout.