Murder on Safari Read online

  Copyright © 2015 by Peter Riva

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Yucca Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Yucca Publishing

  Print ISBN: 978-1-63158-041-3

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63158-051-2

  Printed in the United States of America

  To my friends who are thinly disguised in this tale, to my family who always have patience when I travel, I say thank you. Enjoy.

  Contents

  Chapter 1 The Ajuran Plateau

  Chapter 2 North of Wajir

  Chapter 3 Chief Methenge

  Chapter 4 Ramu

  Chapter 5 Nairobi

  Chapter 6 The US Embassy

  Chapter 7 Wilson Airport

  Chapter 8 Arusha

  Chapter 9 Pangani

  Chapter 10 Pangani Beach

  Chapter 11 Rudolf’s Croc Farm

  Chapter 12 Mashangalikwa

  Chapter 13 Moshi

  Chapter 14 Kilimanjaro

  Chapter 15 Karen Duka

  Chapter 16 Flightline

  Chapter 17 Ngong

  Chapter 18 Gas Depots

  Chapter 19 Aero Club

  Chapter 20 Ndugu

  Chapter 21 Mungu La-Ubawa

  Chapter 22 Aga Kahn Hospital

  CHAPTER 1

  The Ajuran Plateau

  Kenya, 2002

  Every adventure in the wild starts at the fringes of civilization. For a seasoned safari guide like Mbuno, the dirt-filled concrete island separating the car park from the main terminal of Nairobi Airport represented a no-man’s land separating his escape back to the wild and the full-on Western chaos seen before him that he had no desire to cross into. His graying eyes carefully scanned the hustle and bustle of tourists hauling overstuffed hard-sided suitcases with uncertain wheels across the broken pavement as they exited into the equatorial sun from the smelly, packed, customs’ hall. Even from there as he sat cross-legged atop an aging, dented, dark green, long-wheelbase, safari Land Rover, he could smell the baggage porters’ sweat from too many Tusker beers the night before, thin wisps of tourists’ perfume splashed on to disguise ten-hour flight odor, and the pungent smell of sandalwood oil used as polish throughout the airport, mixed odors now outgassing with the stampede of tourists eager to experience the “real Africa” the holiday brochures promised.

  Patiently, like the Waliangulu expert tracker he was, his mind’s eye had a fixed image of his prey; the faces, shapes, and baggage of the people he was there to collect. As the late morning sun beat at his back, there was not a breath of wind, not a cloud in the sky, but his eyes never blinked, his gaze never averted.

  In the maelstrom before him, the airport swinging glass doors blinked reflected visions of milling people about to emerge. Once outside, the newcomers were descended upon by matatu drivers, unlicensed taxis, and hotel minivan drivers, ready to whisk the passengers away to the eagerly awaited sanctity of the urban reality to be found in Nairobi, the long lost white hunter Mecca of Hemingway, Holden, Roosevelt, and countless other African adventurer legends.

  Mbuno had been through the airport customs’ hall many times returning from safari in distant lands outside of Kenya. As he waited, seated on the ticking aluminum shell of the Land Rover’s roof, ever intent on the flickering arrivals before him, he imagined, accurately, what the crew he awaited was facing inside.

  Off conveyor belts in the sweltering baggage hall in Kenyatta International Airport, the man he was there to collect, Pero Baltazar was searching for his television production colleagues while keeping an eye out for the customs agent hired to help clear the pile of filming equipment, shipped as expensive checked overweight luggage instead of freight. In the button-down side pocket of his safari jacket, Pero no doubt had the bills of lading as well as copies of the original purchase/rental orders for all the equipment, the commercial insurance, the packing lists for each case and, of course, the certificates of origin. As the lone producer for this television shoot, all this paperwork, as well as the crew’s safety, was his responsibility, Mbuno knew, just as he knew the customs officials hoped to catch a mzungu—a white man—without proper paperwork. Mbuno smiled, knowing Baltazar was surely prepared; he always had been before.

  Mbuno also imagined Pero’s partner Bill “Heep” Heeper, somewhere in the melee, one sloped shoulder from decades of video work, possibly secretly illegally filming the customs’ hall chaos, catching the slight panic of some of the tourists at the “otherness” of the people all around them, the jumble of luggage spilling out and off conveyors, and the swagger of the customs officials. Pero would spot Heep and signal him over and, above all, get him to stop filming before someone confiscated the camera.

  A tough but elegant and talented Dutchman, with sun-bleached hair, Pero’s partner Heep had been born in the shadow of Hitler, seen his relatives hauled off to concentration camps and, as soon as he could, learned a trade that matched his desire to “get to the land of the free.” Once he had become indispensable to documentary filmmakers in Hollywood, he spent most of his time traveling the world as an award-winning cameraman and, lately, as an equally talented director of the partners’ joint filming assignments. Mbuno liked him and importantly, trusted Heep’s instincts in the wild. Of course, it would be Mbuno’s job to keep the crew from getting injured or worse once they reached remote locations in the bush. Filming wildlife was always risky, but for over twenty years Mbuno had seen to it that his charges were protected.

  Heep spoke four languages, Mbuno knew and was, always, under-spoken, professional, and determined. Over the years, Pero had found that Heep wasn’t a man to cross. In the field, if kept supplied with whatever he needed, he stayed happy and efficient. If anyone on a shoot showed any accidental incompetence, he could blow a fuse. Mbuno had worked with them both and knew the score.

  Coupled with the equatorial light dimly filtering in from overhead skylights, the fetid air in the crowded hall and the slightly heady 5,000 feet in altitude would give some people second thoughts about the safari of a lifetime. It always happened—Mbuno and the filmmakers had seen it all before. He watched a woman emerging uncertainly from the glass doors. She was set upon by taxi drivers plying their trade, grabbing her luggage and flight bag. Dressed in Florida pink shorts and pink T-shirt, dropping her oversized sunglasses on the ground, she began crying on the shoulder of her equally garish female companion: “I want to go home!”

  Mbuno raised his voice, “Koma! Acha peke-ake!” (Stop! Leave her alone).

  The taxi drivers looked towards the car park at the elder sitting on an official Land Rover. Mbuno’s voice carried authority. One tourist was not worth trouble. They backed away from the women and turned towards the next gaggle coming through the doors, Japanese tourists with phrase books open and ready. The woman comforting the crying lady in pink waved and smiled at Mbuno who simply nodded and went back to his vigil.

  Mbuno knew that Pero, unlike some of t
hese first time visitors, would be happy to be back in Africa, especially East Africa and Kenya in particular. He loved the fringe of civilization. He always told Mbuno that it made him feel he was about to get off, get out, get away, at least for a while. Mbuno smiled at a memory of the expression both Heep and Pero used: “Stop the world, we’re getting off.”

  Mbuno had read the advance material Pero had sent him via mail to Giraffe Manor where he now lived. Every TV or film crew Mbuno had taken charge of always used the same terms: “Filming, indeed even stepping into Africa, is forbidding and dangerous; the Edge of the Wild will take viewers beyond belief.” The more danger they packed in the script, the more likely the sponsors would ante up the money needed to have the cable network agree to send them on filming adventures. Pero and Heep had explained on a time-lag phone line that they wanted to be out in the wilds of Kenya, away from the choking stench of the cities, making contact with native people, animals, and an especially dangerous seagoing crocodile—capturing the last vestiges of the Earth’s wildlife on camera. Every year, “wild” was becoming harder to find. In truth, all three men were a little depressed that, all over the planet, zoos were springing up masquerading as National Parks and wildlife refuges. The whole of Africa was on the verge of “wild” extermination—the result of tourist dollars, industrial powers’ exploitation, and locally rocketing populations.

  What Pero’s team were making was supposed to be “commercial wildlife genre” TV. In reality, it was repackaged, in-your-face, human stories in which the animals played only a supporting role. None of the team was fooled. They had cashed the checks and enjoyed the ride before and would do it again. Pero’s personally stated justification was a man has to eat, so he might as well enjoy the process. The awards and Emmy nominations only stroked the ego—even if it was a bit hypocritical. Mbuno knew that as Pero was the creator and producer, he would—sometimes—become the general whipping boy for the cable network accountants fighting over expense billing, even down to the price of bottled water in foreign hotels. Somehow, Pero seemed to roll with the petty times to enjoy the richness of the last of the wild with his friend Mbuno and his colleague Heep.

  From behind the Land Rover, an unfamiliar Indian voice cut through Mbuno’s attention, “Mzee Mbuno?” Using the honorific term “elder” in Swahili made Mbuno smile and wave the man forward, so he could see both him and the crowds. “I most sincerely apologize for keeping you waiting . . .” The Schenker badge on the Indian man’s jacket identified him as the film crew’s customs agent. The man was, as usual, clutching a folder stuffed with paperwork. “I have arranged for the transfer of the equipment as arranged to Wilson airport within three hours of clearance here. It took about fifteen minutes longer than expected because Mr. Pero and Mr. Heep had to explain all the equipment items to the Customs officials, a very serious waste of time, of course.” Mbuno knew Pero had used this agent before and that all would be delivered, on time, to the private plane charter the crew was catching in three hours. As the agent waved goodbye and hurried off, clutching his folder, Mbuno caught first sight of Pero as the team emerged into the sun. The taxi jackals crowded in for the kill. Mbuno’s sharp ears picked up Pero’s barked “Basi, rufi!” (Enough, go away) and Mbuno smiled and stood up on the roof of the Land Rover, waving slowly.

  Pero looked over the heads of the crowd and saw the small car park beyond that was full of the now-usual exotic mixture of European cars and off-road vehicles. Once this would have been the exclusive province of Land Rover, but now there were Toyotas, Nissans, BMWs, Mercedes, Isuzus, and Mitsubishi. The dark green beaten-up old Land Rover with Mbuno waving on top almost looked out of place, a sign of safaris past. To Pero, the seemingly ageless man had been waiting for them to arrive, he knew, his graying hair shining in the morning sun. To Pero, Mbuno was slowly becoming equally anachronistic in the sea of modern East Africa streaming from the Terminal eager to see wildlife from the safety of zebra-painted minivans, AC running, windows firmly closed against exposure to the land. Images, cameras, were everything, the real experience sanitized, safe.

  “Mbuno, good to see you,” Pero called and waved.

  “And you too, Mr. Pero, and you, Mr. Heep, jambo!” Mbuno answered as he climbed down off the roof, his smile and extended hand showing true welcome. They shook hands, swapped grips to lock thumbs, then grasped forearms, then let go, laughed, and hugged. Clearly old friends, Pero and then Heep patted the aging Mbuno’s back as Mbuno opened the passenger door.

  A slim man of thirty-five emerged and said, “Simon Thomson, Kenya Parks Service,” sticking out his hand. Simon was well known in wildlife circles as a crazy Kenyan who studied the flight patterns of birds of prey by soaring with them in a blue hang glider. The extremely long glider was strapped to the Land Rover’s roof. Simon saw Pero and Heep studying it and commented, “Like a bat, with ‘er wings folded.”

  Pero raised his eyebrows. In anticipation of the unasked question, Simon replied, “Mbuno here has reserved a four fouteeen,” he meant a Cessna 414, which seated ten, “she’ll fit up the aisle, no problem.”

  Nodding, Heep replied, “Well, you’re both efficient, thanks Simon, glad to have you on board.”

  “Always wanted footage of me floating up there with the birds, you promised I could have a copy . . .” In accepting the shoot, he had faxed that he was going to use it to renew his research funding from Princeton University in New Jersey.

  Pero nodded, “Yes, I promise. But I’ve gone one further. My father has a friend on the Board of Trustees at Princeton—he’s going to screen it for the committee personally.”

  “Oh, that’ll be fine, really fine, I very much appreciate it.”

  “And you’ll get your full fee as well. They play fair, Simon.”

  He smiled, “So I’ve heard, word gets around. Mbuno here chooses his friends carefully.” Mbuno nodded. “Now, who are these chaps?”

  Heep explained that one crewmember was a South African originally from Madagascar, Ruis Selby, the other a friend of Heep’s from Holland, Priit Vesilind. Everyone shook hands and repeated jambos. Mbuno had difficulty with Priit’s name, pronouncing it, “Mr. Preet.”

  Priit thought that was fine. “What tribe are you from, Mr. Mbuno?”

  In his singsong voice, Mbuno explained, “I am Liangulu, but we are not wanted as a tribe anymore. Our village is now part of national park land.” He said it in a sad way, so the men knew that Liangulu tribal life was probably irrevocably changed, perhaps not for the better. These wildlife crewmen had seen the demise of tribes all over the world, knew the score. Priit, impressed with Mbuno’s command of English and what was clearly Pero and Heep’s regard for this small elder tribesman, had to ask, “How’d you fellows all hook up?”

  On the way into Nairobi, Pero explained some of the jobs to Priit that he’d been on with Mbuno. He focused on the ex-elephant hunter story about Mbuno, now turned expert safari and film guide. He focused on Mbuno’s cadre of clients, the high and wealthy, all of whom put their complete trust in the little Liangulu ex-elephant hunter. All true, but it wasn’t the whole truth. Mbuno stayed silent.

  Simon, of course, knew Mbuno’s off-the-record story, being a Kenyan. The one where Mbuno saved a herd of elephants from slaughter and his tribe from banishment. That sort of gossip traveled fast, especially when a native managed to outfox corruption at the highest government level. Simon was sure Mbuno was formidable as a friend or enemy.

  As for Ruis, he and Pero had been in-country together with Mbuno years ago. Ruis knew bits of Mbuno’s other story too. After all, he had seen Mbuno talk to elephants, calming them, for a better film shot. Ruis was in no doubt; there was more to the man than Pero was explaining to Priit. Ruis, like Heep and Pero before him, knew he could depend on Mbuno’s bush skills, his Liangulu expertise, and his ages-old native knowledge.

  Mbuno’s tribe was called Waliangulu, which means “people of the Liangulu.” Waliangulu were traditional elephant hunters, had been for tens of th
ousands of years. Mbuno could still track, on foot, and hunt rogue elephant with a bow and arrow. This mere man with generational elephant understanding and skills, when stood up against a five-ton African elephant, was more than a fair match.

  Before civilization replaced nature’s way of controlling wildlife, Africa was in balance with nature. If a tribesman needed meat, he went out and hunted. The most tender prey is always a young animal. However, a traditional hunter cannot get near to the young, protected by the herd, try as they might, so they settle on what they can approach. When armed with bow and arrow, or spear, on foot, hunters were always faced down by the old male or female protector of the herd. A test of wills and skills took place and, most of the time, the hunter usually prevailed, a tribute to the ingenuity of man. The old antelope or buffalo or elephant was consumed, every bit used, not a scrap left. The ivory was to trade for cloth or grain, the rest consumed or made into tools, hides or jerky. The old hunted elephant was probably sterile. The younger male or female that replaced it as herd leader bred the herd up, not down. Primordial wildlife in Africa once thrived because nature used to be in balance, a contest of skills.

  Modern East Africa has different ideas. To preserve tourism, one by one governments had declared all hunting illegal, additionally wiping out the only traditional source of income and a way of life for tribes like Mbuno’s.

  That didn’t mean the Waliangulu hunters lost their skills. The greatest of them became trophy taletellers at the National Park campsites and hotels. Some were easy recruiting targets for the poaching gangs using AK-47s to slaughter whole herds. A few of them, like Mbuno, found other employment for their skills, taking people out on safari who wanted to be away from civilization, even if only for a few weeks at a time, on the fringes of the old hunting grounds, where civilization had not quite arrived, yet. He had taken out royalty, billionaires, actors, writers, tourists from Japan and, for many years, Pero’s film crews. Mbuno had outlived all the older Waliangulu traditional hunters. He was now considered legendary. Pero and Heep considered him vital to any filming in Africa. They had been through this type of shooting safari before and knew they could trust him, with their lives if necessary.