14
From the air she could see even more evidence of the river’s strangulation, of the slow death of an ecosystem, but it was cold comfort to her, knowing there might be some good in the mission she was embarking on. Her life, her future, was as barren as the parched Kalahari sandveld passing below.
She leaned her head against the perspex window of the Mack Air Gippsland Airvan, which had all the charm of a flying caravan. The noise and vibrations from the engine almost, but not quite, drowned out the sound of Cheryl-Ann heaving into a paper bag behind her, but they couldn’t kill the smell. Sonja stared down at Africa below her, filtered grey through a haze created by far-off but ever-present fires. Traditionally, African farmers burned their lands to clear them before the rains came. But
