Kidnapped in the Kafue

Kidnapped in the Kafue

An Adventure of the

Duncan Watt

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Duncan Watt

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Illustrations and Cover by Paul O’Shea

Maps and diagrams by Duncan Watt

Additional drawings by Josephine Crickmay, taken from Kafue Killers by Duncan Watt, published by Oxford University Press, with grateful thanks.

(Winner of the Highly Commended Award - Singapore National Book Development Council)

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To S.A.W.

As a reminder of those wonderful holidays in the Kafue National Park

ISBN

First published in 1991 by Tynron Press, Unit 3, Turnpike Close Lutterworth Leicestershire LE17 4JA United Kingdom

Reprinted 1992, 1995 (thrice), 1996, 1997, 1998

ISBN 1-85646-091-6

Table of Contents

1. Death in the Bush

2. Welcomed with Open Arms

3. The Perfect Host

4. Game Viewing

5. Wildlife Alert

6. A Noble but Futile Gesture

7. Bruce Gets Up Early Again

8. Only Driven by a Little Old Lady on Sundays

9. Into the Wilds

10. Wildlife - Countdown to Zero

11. Bruce’s Bosom Buddy

12. Captured!

13. Escape!

14. Out of the Fat

15. Lazarus Shows What He’s Made Of

16. Hostage!

17. Rescue!

18. Jesse James Strikes Again!

Postscript

End Notes

1

Death in the Bush

A shot rang out and the distant figure jerked. A sudden, deathly hush blanketed the central African bushveld. The ring-neck dove in a nearby mopane tree stopped in the middle of her plaintive call and the cicadas fell silent. For a moment nothing moved. Even the veil of blue smoke from the muzzle of the rifle seemed to hang in the hot, still air of the late afternoon.

Then all at once the bushveld sprang back to life. There was a noisy whirring of wings as a dozen vultures on the ground and in the branches of a dead tree took to the air to begin spiralling, gaining height.

The figure that had been shot slumped forward and, with an involuntary quiver of its back legs, lay motionless.

At least she’s out of her agony, murmured the man with the rifle grimly. His lips were set in a thin, hard line. His narrowed eyes beneath the wide shady brim of his hat told of barely-controlled rage. Slowly he brought the rifle down from his shoulder and looked round at his three young companions standing just behind him. He pushed the hat back from his forehead and wiped the sweat from his eyes. He slid another cartridge into the breech and thumbed the safety catch on.

The three boys were in their late teens. Two of them were brothers; dark-haired Nigel Wallace about a year older than Bruce who was fairer and stockier. Their vivid blue eyes contrasted with their deeply-tanned faces and arms. Both boys came from Zimbabwe and were at the university in the capital, Harare. This was where they had met their friend, Muyunda Munalula, who was from the Western Province of Zambia. He was of the Lozi tribe. The boys had known each other for quite some time and they spent most holidays together. This holiday they were staying with Muyunda’s Uncle Kamwi who was the Chief Game Warden in the northern section of the Kafue[1] National Park.

Let’s go and have a look at her. It won’t be a pretty sight, I’m sure. Kamwi slipped the rifle over his shoulder.

Already the vultures were beginning to settle again. Grotesquely they hopped forward greedily, wings spread out, towards the body of the animal that lay among the trees. A jackal, on the lookout for scraps, slunk off through the grass as soon as he saw the four people approaching.

With a shout and waving his hat in the air, Kamwi jogged the last fifty metres to the dead animal. Reluctantly the vultures gave way and flapped noisily off to wait in the bare branches. Their heads twisted this way and that on their long sinuous necks, eyes glittering.

Puffing slightly, the three boys followed Kamwi through the bushes and crouched down in the sparse shade next to the dead animal. Kamwi propped his rifle against a tree trunk.

Kudu cow, said Bruce. Gently he stroked the grey fur. Just look at the wire noose. See how it has bitten deep into her neck. His finger pointed to the blood-matted fur that formed a savage red collar round the animal’s neck.

She must have struggled, murmured Nigel.

And as she struggled, the noose became tighter, put in Muyunda. It’s awful. He took hold of one of the kudu’s big, soft, pink ears between his fingers and caressed it gently. You can even see where she has been cut through to the bone. Look.

In places the red gash showed white. The wire noose was still attached to the two trees on either side of the game trail through the bushes. The delicate head remained erect. A trail of moisture ran down the fur from the great lustrous eye that still seemed to be watching the boys.

She’s looks as though she’s been crying, said Muyunda.

She’s so beautiful, said Bruce. What a waste. What a complete waste - why do people ... how can people do this sort of thing?

Poaching is big business, said Kamwi grimly. The poachers will make quite a bit out of the skin when it’s cured and made into a rug or kaross. And then there’s the meat; either fresh or sun-dried and made into biltong. That fetches a ready market in Lusaka or the Copperbelt.

"And if, instead of a kudu cow, they had caught a bull with a fine set of horns, they could be mounted - that would be worth more than just a female’s head, put in Muyunda. Though that’s what they’ll probably do with this one too."

Nigel remembered seeing a magnificent kudu bull earlier that day; the spiral horns corkscrewed outwards and would have made a wonderful trophy for someone’s living-room wall. The animal had stood motionless, knee-deep in the dry yellow grass beneath a small tree. The sun dappled his silver-striped grey coat. Beneath his black penetrating eyes was a distinctive white line. Suddenly his pink cars twitched with apprehension. He must have caught the boys’ scent and, laying his horns back across his shoulders and flicking his tail up, he had wheeled and blundered through the trees.

Muyunda took hold of the kudu’s head and twisted the far side towards him.

He gave a sudden grunt of disgust and horror. He dropped the head.

What’s the matter? asked Nigel, although he had a pretty good idea.

The vultures have already been at her. Look.

Instead of a shiny black eye was a gaping hole encrusted with blood.

They must have taken it while she was still alive. Bruce’s mouth twisted into a grimace of revulsion.

She had no way of defending herself. Kamwi looked around at the birds that perched in the bare tree nearby, their shoulders hunched. Or it could have been that marabou stork over there. A marabou usually waits for the vultures to rip the hide, and then it can get at the flesh.

Not far away, waiting patiently, stood a tall bird on one leg.

Nigel was immediately put in mind of a tall, very elderly, emaciated, dry-as-dust lawyer. Surely, he thought, this has to be the ugliest bird in the world. Its bald head and neck were touched with what looked like patches of mangy hair. The beak, scaly and grey, still carried traces of an earlier meal; the tip was tinged with red.

Kamwi examined his shot. A neat hole, barely visible, with just a slight smear of blood had been bored through the fur just below the ear.

Thank goodness you were able to put her out of her misery. If I could just get my hands on these people. What sort of people can do things like this? Bruce looked around as if expecting to see the poachers.

Very ordinary people, in the main. They feel that they are just making a living, said Kamwi.

But don’t they know it’s illegal?

Oh, yes. Of course they do. But they feel the rewards are worth it.

How do they get away with it? We’re in a game reserve where the animals are protected, for crying out loud. You are here to protect them.

Yes, I’m here to protect them. You’re right. But let’s try to get this in perspective. This game reserve isn’t the size of a city park or even a safari park one finds in England. The Kafue is the same size as Wales - half the size of Switzerland - and there are no more than a couple of game wardens like myself and there are less than a hundred scouts; they have to cover 22,500 square kilometres with limited funds, I might add, and they can’t be everywhere at once. These poachers know this; they come in, make a few killings and they are off again. It was only because we saw the vultures in the sky that we realized that something was afoot over here. It could have been a lion or leopard kill, but this is what we found. Certainly a pretty grisly find.

What are we going to do? asked Bruce.

What can we do? countered Kamwi.

Are we just going to leave her like this?

Well, we can’t bury her, if that’s what you mean, put in Nigel. She’ll just have to be left for the scavengers; in a few hours these vultures will have made short work of her. There are probably several hyena or wild dog sniffing round in the bushes just out of sight.

Of course I didn’t mean that, Bruce retorted. I meant can we do something about the poachers?

Nigel looked at his brother. What do you mean?

Well, we could hide up in those bushes and then when they turn up we could nab them.

That’s a thought; or we could follow them and see where they go.

No, snapped Kamwi. That won’t work. They won’t be far away. I know how these people work. They need to be near their traps so that they can get to the animal quickly before it is too badly damaged by the scavengers.

So you think that they will have heard the gun shot? asked Muyunda.

Yes, said Kamwi. "I’m sure of it. In fact they’re probably right this moment watching our every move and they’ll make certain that we’re well out of the way before they make a move. It’d be useless."

But surely there is something that we can do, Bruce insisted.

No, there isn’t, he snapped. The tone in Kamwi’s voice brooked no opposition.

But...

Nigel threw his brother a warning glance. Knock-it off, Bruce. You heard what Kamwi said.

Bruce’s eyes were smouldering with anger as he looked at his brother.

Their eyes locked.

Imperceptibly Nigel shook his head and Bruce realized that he was in dangerous territory. He glanced at Kamwi whose face was a mask, his eyes unfocussed staring into the distance.

Sorry, Kamwi. I was out of line. Sorry, Bruce apologized.

Almost physically Kamwi seemed to shake himself. That’s all right, he managed to say.

Well, what we can do, said Bruce, is to cut down that terrible wire and destroy the trap.

I always do that, said Kamwi. I take everything like this home. I have got quite a chamber of horrors back at the camp!

At once the boys and Muyunda’s uncle started hacking the copper wire trap from the trees and began the grisly task of extricating the noose from round the kudu’s neck.

I see they’ve used copper wire, said Nigel.

Yes, said Kamwi. The poachers have probably raided electricity pylons. He rolled the noose into a bundle and handed it to Muyunda. You can carry this back to the Land Rover. It’s time we started back to camp. It’ll be dark soon. He picked up his rifle.

Already the sun, a giant, shimmering, blood-red ball, was swinging down to a hazy horizon. The heat of the afternoon was fast draining away as the shadows lengthened.

Bruce gently laid the kudu cow’s head on the ground and he stroked the dry muzzle, feeling the tiny soft hairs round her mouth.

Sorry, old girl, he murmured. We’re going to have to leave you. Silently he wished that he could find some way of exacting revenge on the killers.

These were the ones who laid the trap; but, he thought, they were just the small fry. Behind them, he realized, were the bosses; those were the ones who had to be caught. If only he could think of a way of doing this.

Wait a minute. Kamwi put his rifle down again and he bent over the kudu. Gently his fingers probed the fur between her hind legs. Just as I thought. A look of anger flashed across his features. Devils! They’re devils! That’s what they are. He withdrew his hands and the three boys saw that his fingers were clenched into two tight fists, the knotted, throbbing veins standing out and the knuckles grey and taut. If only I could get my hands on them. God help me; I would kill them with my bare hands!

Muyunda placed a comforting hand on his uncle’s shoulder. Come on, he said. Let’s get out of here. This place smells of death. Let’s get back to the camp.

Once more Kamwi’s hands pressed between the kudu’s hind quarters and he kept throwing piercing glances into the surrounding bushes. He tensed, his body rigid, as his eyes fixed on something he had seen moving stealthily between the trees, coming towards them. Kamwi put his fingers to his lips and the boys froze, staring intently at where he was pointing.

2

Welcomed with Open Arms

It was the day before that the lorry, which the three boys had hitched a ride on, dumped them unceremoniously at Chunga Camp. Tired and dusty, they picked up their rucksacks and waved to the driver and the grinning lorry boy, sitting astride sacks of grain.

I thought it would never end, groaned Bruce. I feel stiff all over.

You should have done that journey some years ago, before the road was tarred, said Muyunda. "That took forever and it was either dust in the dry season or thick mud in the wet. It took me