The Delta

2

2

Sam wiped his brow and replaced the wide-brimmed bush hat with the faux leopard skin puggaree on his head. ‘Out here, in the African bush, there’s no shortage of things that can kill you, and while they don’t cause nearly as many deaths as the humble mosquito or the lumbering hippo, these three hundred pound p***y cats are …’

‘Kilograms,’ Stirling said.

‘Cut!’ Cheryl-Ann screeched. ‘Stirling, please don’t interrupt when we’re filming, you know it puts Sam off his game.’

‘Well, an adult male lion weighs up to three hundred kilograms, not pounds.’

‘Well, we use pounds in the States, Stirling.’ Cheryl-Ann stood with her hands on her hips.

‘Well then, at a conversion rate of two point two he should say six hundred and sixty pounds. It’s a big difference.’

‘Stirling, I’m sure we all appreciate your expert guidance, but can we keep it to off-camera, please. Sam is the star of this …’

Sam held up a hand. ‘It’s OK, Cheryl-Ann. Thanks, Stirling. I really appreciate you picking up the mistake. Let’s do it again.’

Sam heard Stirling mutter something under his breath as the safari guide picked up a yellowed stalk of grass and bit down on it. He was sure Stirling didn’t like him, despite his efforts to make small talk and befriend him around the camp fire the past two nights. Sam knew that Stirling thought he had no right and no qualifications to be making a television documentary about the Okavango Delta. What, Stirling must have wondered, was ‘Coyote’ Sam Chapman doing in Africa? Sam asked himself the same question, and came up with the same answer. He was here for the money. He sighed, took off his stupid hat, wiped his forehead again, took another look at the fake fur band and tossed it away.

‘Sam, what are you doing?’ Cheryl-Ann asked. ‘Gerry, get the hat.’

Gerry, the sound recordist, got up and picked up the hat from the long grass, treading gingerly as he did so. They had all, except Stirling, been freaked out by the sight of the cobra that had slithered from under Ray’s camera bag that morning. It wasn’t Gerry’s job to pick up after a petulant star, but Cheryl-Ann was the executive producer and when she was riled, as she was today, it was a brave man who said no to her.

‘I don’t want the hat,’ Sam said to Gerry when he offered it.

‘Sam,’ Cheryl-Ann said in her schoolmarm voice, ‘put the hat on. It’s important for continuity, and for your image.’

Sam looked at Stirling and saw the guide rolling his eyes. ‘I wouldn’t wear a Stetson with a coyote skin on it in Wyoming, Cheryl-Ann, so why should I wear some big bwana hat with a dead cat on it in Africa?’

‘Aaargh!’ Cheryl-Ann threw her production notes down on the ground and stalked past the camera crew until her nose was inches from Sam’s square chin. ‘Listen to me,’ she said in a hoarse whisper, ‘you may be the next big thing in wildlife documentaries, Mister Coyote Sam Chapman, but this is my film and I call the shots here. The channel sent me because I know my stuff and I don’t need you, or some copper-bangle-wearing out-of-Africa safari guide telling me how to make this documentary. If I tell you to wear the f*****g hat, then you wear the f*****g hat. Understood?’

He looked at the ground, and the stupid hat. It was all a sham anyway, so what difference did it make if they dressed him as someone he wasn’t? He might be the star of the series of six documentaries for the Wildlife World Channel, but Cheryl-Ann was right. He was the talking head, the talent, nothing more than a reasonably well-known face. ‘OK.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘OK,’ he said to her, louder, and picked up the hat.

‘All right, people, we’ve got a documentary to make and a schedule to keep to. That includes, you, mister.’ She raised her voice to attract Stirling Smith’s attention.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Stirling drawled in a poor imitation of an American accent. ‘What can I do for you all?’

‘Lions.’

They were on foot, the open-top Land Rover game-viewing vehicle parked out of shot, and while Sam had been talking about lions as part of the script and pointing theatrically away, there were actually no big cats in the vicinity – at least none they had seen. The idea was to film him on foot and then cut to some footage of a male lion – once they saw one.

‘I’ll find you a lion. Sure as nuts, don’t worry about that.’

‘That’s what you said yesterday, and we still haven’t seen anything bigger than a sherbal.’

‘Serval.’

‘Whatever.’

Stirling shrugged. ‘Lions have feet. They walk. I can’t tell you where they are every minute of the day, but there are three prides in our concession and we have a general idea where they are likely to be. I’ll find you some just now. One of our other guides, Metsi, is out looking for one of the prides as we speak.’

There was an arrogance about the man, Sam thought, and it was becoming clear that he had little fondness for Americans, which was a shame. Stirling might be blinded by stereotypes, but in his defence, Cheryl-Ann was giving him no reason to open his eyes.

Besides, Sam thought, Stirling ought to be grateful that they were making a documentary about the Okavango River and the delta of the same name. Wildlife World, a US-based cable TV channel that made and showed documentaries about nature and the environment, had helped raise awareness about endangered species and ecosystems around the world. Also, the lodge Stirling managed would get a few mentions, so the program would be good for business.

‘Stirling, we need some water,’ Cheryl-Ann chirped.

‘There’s drinking water in the cooler box, in the back of the Land Rover,’ the guide said, spitting out his grass stalk. ‘Must I fetch it for you?’

‘No, Stirling, I’m talking about water to film – for the documentary.’ She left off the word ‘duh’, though Sam could clearly hear it was implied. He was glad Cheryl-Ann was picking on someone else for the moment. It gave him a chance to breathe. ‘This is supposed to be a film about the Okavango River and the wetlands, after all.’

‘We’re a little short on H2O at the moment, I’m afraid. It’s called climate change, and politics. Perhaps you want to put that in your documentary, or is that a bit much for your audience to absorb in between commercial breaks and getting their TV dinners out of the microwave?’

Cheryl-Ann scoffed, ‘No one eats TV dinners any more, and we don’t have commercial breaks during our programs. And, for your information, this documentary is going to be talking about the dam being constructed on the Okavango River.’

‘You are?’ His tone softened. ‘That’s great, Cheryl-Ann. If you can help tell the world about the impact the dam is going to have – is already having – then that might help our case. God knows, the Botswana government hasn’t been able to achieve anything.’ Stirling snapped his fingers. ‘Hey, I just remembered. We’ve got a meeting of the Okavango Delta Defence Committee in a few days. It’s a group of local safari operators, land owners and conservationists who are opposed to the dam. They’ll be at Xakanaxa while Sam’s out doing his survival segment. You could meet with them and we could tell you what we’ve been doing to lobby the UN and politicians in Angola and Namibia.’

‘We don’t get involved in politics at Wildlife World,’ said Cheryl-Ann, parroting company policy. ‘We’re playing it straight down the line. There’s been a lot of hype already around the world about the so-called threat to the Okavango Delta, but we’re also going to show the need for water in parts of Namibia.’

‘What? So-called threat? Don’t you understand how serious a threat that dam poses for this ecosystem?’

‘Like I said, it’s going to be balanced. We’ve got experts from the Namibian government showing us around and giving us a guided tour of the dam site and the drought-affected areas of their country.’

Stirling shook his head and turned away, walking back to the Land Rover. ‘Propaganda.’

Sam could see the situation was spiralling out of control. Cheryl-Ann Daffen had a fearsome reputation at Wildlife World for never backing down and always coming home with the goods. She’d won two Emmys for best documentary, and one for best producer, and her film on the African fish eagle had been nominated for an Oscar. Sam knew he should consider himself lucky to be working with such a professional, but the woman had an uncanny knack for pissing off everyone she met. ‘Um, guys. We’re losing the morning light and we’ve still got a lot to do.’

Both Cheryl-Ann and Stirling looked at him like he was an annoyance. Sam sighed.

‘I’ll show you your lion, and your water,’ Stirling said.

Stirling Smith’s knuckles were white as he gripped the warm steering wheel of the Land Rover. He selected low range and diff lock as they entered a patch of deep white Kalahari sand and gunned the engine. He felt the rear of the game viewer slide and allowed himself a small grin as he heard Cheryl-Ann’s alarmed call from the back seat.

The woman was intolerable and the man, ‘Coyote Sam’, a ridiculous parody of a wildlife researcher. The man supposedly had a PhD, but he was a fish out of water here in the delta. The analogy was a good one. He pictured the tall, impossibly handsome American flapping hopelessly around in the mud, slowly cooking under the African sun like a stranded barbel.

The Wildlife World film crew had been foisted upon him by head office in South Africa. The TV people had been comped – provided complimentary accommodation, meals and drinks – by the marketing department, who hoped the exposure from the film they were making about the Okavango would revitalise bookings. The safari business was still trying to recover from the Global Financial Crisis, and an increasing number of media reports about the decreasing stream of water to the Okavango Delta was causing many potential overseas visitors to Botswana to choose Kenya or Tanzania for their African holidays. The dam wall upstream in Namibia had recently been completed and, as far as Stirling could see, this coupled with the effect of an extended drought had served a death sentence on the delta and the precious Moremi Game Reserve.

‘This area we’re passing through,’ he called back over his shoulder as the Land Rover ploughed on noisily through the deep sand, ‘should be underwater. Even in past drought years it’s never been this dry.’

‘You’re saying that’s because of the dam?’ Sam asked.

Coyote Sam. TV star, chick magnet and boy genius, Stirling thought. ‘Who knows?’ he answered honestly. ‘The Namibian government claimed that flows to the delta would be reduced by no more than 1.5 per cent, but that was based on so-called normal rainfall periods. There’s no doubt the dam has exacerbated the drought problem and this area is short a hell of a lot more than 1.5 per cent of its usual flow.’

Stirling drove on through the dry sand and bush. As if the Americans weren’t annoying enough, Stirling was also worried that Coyote Sam seemed to have been flirting with his girlfriend, Tracey Hawthorne, over dinner the previous evening. Tracey was seventeen years younger than Stirling and just the thought of her firm, slender young body was enough to make him stir. Chapman had talked to her all night and Tracey had doted on him, fetching him coffee and insisting he try an Amarula Cream liqueur after they’d had dessert. Tracey had first come to the lodge as a guest with her parents, and on the third night of that stay Stirling had succumbed to her increasingly unsubtle advances. Stirling had had s*x with many female guests at the various lodges where he had worked in Moremi, but since returning to Xakanaxa as the manager he’d made a point to avoid the advances of amorous clients. ‘Khaki Fever’ was a well-documented malaise in Africa, where visitors fell for their handsome safari guides. Some lodges banned it and others turned a blind eye to it, and as a manager Stirling knew he needed to lead by example.

That was until Tracey arrived. Her peaches and cream complexion camouflaged a voracious s****l appetite that bordered on predatory. What Tracey wanted, Tracey got, and once she had set her sights on Stirling his resistance had crumbled. At the end of her first trip she’d promised to return and he’d said he would be glad to have her come visit. He’d thought it was just a fling, but three months later Tracey had returned. A month later he’d managed to find her a job as an assistant food and beverage manager, and she had moved into his tent.

‘Stirling?’ Cheryl-Ann squawked.

‘Sorry, couldn’t hear you over the engine. What was that?’

‘I said, are we going to see any water today?’

‘Coming right up, ma’am.’

There was still water at camp, in front of the luxury safari tents where the film crew was billeted, but even in the main channel the level was down lower than Stirling had ever seen it. Cheryl-Ann had ordered animals drinking from a river, and that was hard to film at camp, where the shores and river islands were choked with pampas grass that stood taller than a man.

‘Here you go.’ Stirling switched off the engine and reached for his binoculars.

‘I don’t see any water,’ Cheryl-Ann said.

In front of them was a seemingly dry waterhole, about the length and half the width of a football field. ‘Look there.’

‘Where, Stirling?’ Sam asked, scanning the grey surface. ‘It just looks like mud to me.’

‘Mostly mud, with a little ground water still seeping up underneath. This should be a foot deep in water at least at this time of year. Check the movement, in the middle.’

‘I see it,’ Sam said.

‘Where?’ asked Gerry.

‘It’s like a moving island. What is that?’ Sam asked.

‘Hippo. He’s had to bury himself in the mud to protect himself from the sun. He has to stay like that all day, until he can come out in the cool of night to graze. That hippo has moved here from the pan where he usually lives, which is ten kilometres away. He may make it to the river, but hippo are very territorial animals and the pods in the main channel might not like him coming onto their turf. He’ll most likely die before the next rains.’

Wa-hoo, something called.

‘What was that?’ Cheryl-Ann asked.

‘Baboon,’ Stirling said without looking over. Moments later, a troop of primates, about forty in all, crossed the open sandy ground where elephants had trampled or eaten the grass and other vegetation that once fringed the waters.

Stirling raised his binoculars. ‘They’re desperate to drink here. It’s dangerous.’

‘I don’t see any predators nearby,’ Ray, the cameraman, said from the back of the truck.

‘Get your camera out and start filming, Ray,’ Stirling said.

‘Hey,’ Cheryl-Ann said, ‘Ray films when I tell him to and not …’

‘Quickly,’ Sam said, watching the baboons intently. ‘Something else just moved out there.’

Gerry was already climbing down from the Land Rover, helping Ray by setting up the tripod. He plugged his microphone cable in as Ray started recording.

The column of baboons was headed by a large male who paced up and down the sludgy edge of the pan looking for the cleanest spot from which to drink. Through the observers’ binoculars it all looked unpalatable, even for animals, but the primate lowered his doglike snout to the ooze and started lapping. Soon the rest of his troop had fanned out on either side of them and began tentatively sucking up what moisture they could.

‘Check,’ Stirling whispered.

‘Hey,’ said Sam, ‘it’s a …’

Stirling felt the vehicle rock as the ear-piercing shriek made Cheryl-Ann start in her seat. The crocodile, like the hippo, had been buried to the point of near invisibility in the mud of the waterhole. He knew the spot other animals would still consider clean enough to drink from and had positioned himself accordingly. The crocodile had launched himself from the ooze and locked his jaws around the leg of a young baboon.

The infant wailed hysterically and scrambled in the mud and dirt with its tiny hands as the croc started reversing back into the ooze. The male baboon gave his warning bark again and the rest of the troop fled screaming from the waterhole, but the leader stayed. He waded through thick slime to where the youngster still yelped and thrashed.

‘Please tell me you’re getting this,’ Cheryl-Ann whispered.

Ray had his eye pressed to the rubber cup of the camera’s viewfinder. He raised a thumb over his head as the male baboon grasped the juvenile’s hand and began tugging.

‘Sam, start talking. Make me cry,’ Cheryl-Ann said.

Sam climbed down from the Land Rover and crouched beside Ray and Gerry, his face near the microphone. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and thought for a few seconds. Stirling looked at the crew and shook his head.

‘Here in the Okavango Delta the drama of life and death is played out every day. Sometimes it’s not pretty to watch, but that’s the way the circle of life turns. Family ties are strong in a baboon troop and this dominant male will risk his own life to try and save his offspring …’

Sam paused as the young baboon’s wails punctuated his monologue. Half-a-dozen other members of the troop had stopped their flight and turned back. They clustered around their leader and, grunting and barking, also tried to grab hold of the hapless youngster.

‘Baboons,’ Sam continued, ‘will chase off a leopard or cheetah if they discover one of the cats in their territory, but can their fearless devotion to their offspring defeat a predator that has had little need to evolve since prehistoric times?’

One of the baboons had jumped on the crocodile’s back, but the reptile, who had exposed two metres of body length with still more hidden in the muck, shook the primate off with a flick of its tail. The dominant male baboon gave a whoop of what seemed like grief and frustration as the croc tore his baby from his grasp.

‘What we’ve witnessed here,’ Sam continued, ad libbing, ‘may well be more than the death of a single creature. It may be the beginning of the end of this once green wildlife Eden, which at this time of year should be crisscrossed with clear water channels and rivulets, where animals like that tiny baboon might otherwise have drunk in safety.’

Stirling frowned. The woman was the b***h from hell, but the himbo, Coyote Sam, might just be smart enough to take some advice.

‘Sam, don’t pre-empt the end of the documentary before we’ve already begun shooting it,’ Cheryl-Ann said. ‘We don’t know for sure this river’s going to dry up.’

‘Beautiful stuff, man,’ Ray said quietly.

‘How was your game drive, Sam? Did you get lots of lovely video?’ Tracey Hawthorne’s khaki shorts were so short they might better have been classed as swimwear, or underwear, Sam thought as he eased his sweaty body down from the Land Rover.

‘Sweet.’

Tracey giggled. ‘Brunch will be served soon, but you must tell me all about your morning before I let you go freshen up.’

‘I could use a shower first.’

‘Dip in the pool would be better. I’ve just been in. It’s divine.’ Tracey glanced downwards and folded her arms in front of her chest demurely, appearing to have just noticed that her wet bikini was showing through her white tank top.

Sam had noticed the wet patches, and her n*****s, though he had tried hard not to stare at them, or at the tiny jewel in her bellybutton when her top rode up. ‘I don’t have my trunks on.’

‘Nonsense. You’re in Africa now. Jump in with your cargo shorts on.’

Stirling tramped up the wooden ramp that led to the thatched reception area at Xakanaxa Camp. ‘Sam says he needs a shower, Tracey. Leave the poor man alone.’

Sam turned. The camp manager and head guide had given him s**t all morning. ‘You know, Tracey, I might just take you up on that idea of a swim, on one condition.’

‘What’s that, Mr Chapman?’

‘That you join me for a quick dip, Miss Hawthorne.’

Tracey looked at her watch. ‘Well, I am on duty, but brunch isn’t on for another fifteen minutes. I’m game if you are.’

Another Land Rover with two other tourists on board, a German couple Sam had posed for pictures with and signed autographs for the previous evening, pulled up at reception. Sam saw Stirling glare at him, then turn and walk over to the newly arrived game-viewing vehicle. Someone had to greet the returning guests and Sam imagined it was Tracey’s job. Sam began unbuttoning his bush shirt as he followed Tracey’s hypnotic hips across the sandy courtyard that separated reception from the common area of the lodge. Spread out along the banks of the main channel of the Khwai River were the dining area, with a long heavy wooden table where all meals were taken communally, a lounge area with coffee tables and deep, worn leather lounges, a self-service bar and, at the far right hand end, a small plunge pool, no bigger in circumference than a circular waterbed.

Sam unlaced and pulled off his hiking boots and socks while Tracey, on the opposite side of the pool, slipped off her rubber flip-flops and pulled the damp tank top over her head. As he shrugged off his shirt she unzipped her shorts and let them fall to the ground. She kicked them off with a pointed toe and smiled at him.

She stood on the opposite side of the pool to him wearing a white bikini that dazzled against the pale buttery tan of her skin. ‘I was nearly dry. Now you’re going to get me all wet again, Coyote Sam.’