Free Ivory Ghosts by Caitlin O'Connell Page A

at the corners of my eyes. In just a few days, I was starting to look as haggard as everyone else around at Susuwe.
    I threw on a long skirt and blouse and headed out the door. My first stop would be Jon Baggs’s office. Then I’d go to the Catholic mission to see what they knew about Red Cross activities in the region.
    As I pulled out of the drive, I spotted Gidean standing on the road, looking like he was on his way to my barracks. I rolled down the window. “Good morning, Gidean. Listen, about last night. I’m really sorry. I should never have been out there.”
    “Good morning.” Gidean smiled. “And not to worry. That never should have happened. I am very sorry for the mistake.”
    “Well, it won’t happen again.”
    “It’s not a problem, really.” Gidean smiled again.
    “Did you find Ernest?”
    Gidean shook his head. “No, but I’m here to deliver a message from your boss, Craig. He got through on the radio just now.”
    “Oh, the radio works?”
    “Just got it back in working order.” Gidean nodded. “My cousin fixed it and dropped it off on his way down to Windhoek.”
    “Handy. And I’m glad Craig called because I’ve had trouble charging my satellite phone. What did he say?”
    “He said that you are to meet with Nigel at nine. He will introduce you to some community members.”
    “Oh, I completely forgot that the meeting was today. Can you remind who Nigel is?”
    Gidean nodded. “He runs the Community Care program in the region. He’s in charge of the game guard program. His office is just next to the post office in Kongola.”
    “That’s right, now I remember.”
    Gidean hesitated. “Will you speak to any of the women in the village?”
    “I’m not sure. Why do you ask?”
    “The women know what’s going on. The induna won’t talk to us about this matter of poaching. He doesn’t trust the government.”
    “I see.”
    “You see, Catherine, the women won’t talk to us rangers, either. And they won’t confide in a man. A man takes control—answering the questions for the women. It’s too intimidating.”
    I smiled, wondering exactly what he was getting at.
    “Maybe you can spend some time with those women. Maybe they will tell you who is involved. Maybe they would be willing to give you evidence.”
    “I will keep that in mind.”
    “I think the women will like you.”
    I smiled again. “Thanks, Gidean. I appreciate that.” I waved and drove off toward Kongola, feeling much better about the previous night.
    The police gate was positioned at the entrance to Bwabwata National Park, gateway to the bustling East Caprivi, and the last stopping point before a hundred miles of forest. Though only a post office, a gas station, a
khuka
shop—the local shabeen—carrying the kind of nasty home-brewed beer that I learned in South Africa was almost more flies than beer, and the Community Care office, the place was a hub of activity. Any little bit of legitimate commerce in these locations led to many other kinds of commerce, just as it did at outposts outside Kruger.
    There were the guys with the privately owned pickup trucks running a taxi service. There was the convenience shop attached to the gas station, selling greasy fried chicken and Portuguese sausage rolls. There were the wise guys in psychedelic shirts and bad sunglasses trying to make a deal—any kind of deal—including an offer I’d had of diamonds from Angola on my way back from the airstrip. They probably knew not to ask a white woman if she wanted to buy an elephant tusk, but no doubt, if a potential customer had the right look, ivory would be offered as well.
    All this took place against a backdrop of throbbing, pulsing African music at all hours of the day and into the night if the beer was ready. With a fifty-liter drum of alcohol that was good for only four days, not much work got done when a batch was served up at ten cents a cup.
    I pulled up to the Kongola Community Care office, where a tall, wiry