The Delta (29 page)

‘Cool,' said the sound man.

Rickards yawned and Sonja could smell the stale booze on his breath. Cheryl-Ann sat in silence, watching the greys and browns of the thorny bushveld pass her by. Sonja had arrived late for dinner, just as the others were finishing, and ordered herself a snack from the bar. She didn't feel like a confrontation with Cheryl-Ann and, besides, they were talking business, planning the shoots for the next few days. She had half feared she might stumble on Sam eating alone, or that he might make an excuse to stay back in the restaurant with her, but he left with the others and nodded a polite goodnight to her as she ate her burger and drank another two beers by herself to calm her pulse.

They had all breakfasted together early that morning and Sonja had eyed the other woman off across the table. Polite and friendly, but a long way from friends. That was fine by Sonja and she hoped it would be enough for Cheryl-Ann.

‘I phoned ahead,' Cheryl-Ann said. ‘They definitely have cabins available for us tonight.'

So there would be no fighting over tents. ‘Good.'

Cheryl-Ann looked away from the scenery and across to Sonja. ‘Did you have trouble with the water in the shower block, Sonja?'

‘Um … yes.'

‘I complained to reception, but they just told me to use the other block. It was way down the other end of the camp. That's really not good enough.'

Sonja shrugged. ‘I just used the men's shower.' She couldn't resist a glance in the rear-view mirror as she said it and when she looked up she saw Sam looking her way. It felt like his eyes were searching for hers and she shifted her gaze immediately.

‘You're coming on the river cruise with us this afternoon, Sonja.'

It was said as a statement rather than a question, but Sonja was pleased nonetheless. Cheryl-Ann would want her there to ensure they correctly identified any birds and mammals they saw during the filming, but Sonja wanted to do a recce of the stretch of river leading to the falls and the dam wall. If she hadn't been automatically included on the river cruise she would have asked to come along, or booked one for herself. The last option was the least desirable, though, as it might have aroused the TV crew's suspicions. ‘That'll be great, Cheryl-Ann. I never get sick of going out on the river,' she said.

Ngepi Camp was a couple of kilometres off the main road, towards the river on a sandy but firm track that passed a village and some local people tending a few cows. The camp itself was on a sand island, though the tributary of the Okavango they passed over, via an earth and rock causeway, was dry. Sonja wondered when it had last flowed. She parked and walked into the reception building, which was open on three sides.

Cheryl-Ann bustled up to the bar, but Sonja hung back and looked around her. She'd heard abut Ngepi, but never stayed here. The camp and its accommodation were pitched at new-age backpackers and free-wheeling overland travellers. It was fun and funky. Every sign around reception seemed to contain a joke and some of them were funny. Behind the bar was the obligatory collection of baseball caps and foreign currency bills stuck to a wall. Overhead was a poster of Che Guevara, and the Namibian flag hung from the rafters of the thatched roof. Sonja wandered past a fire pit surrounded by benches made from old sausage tree
mekoro
s, and onto a wooden platform that jutted out over the river.

The river in front of Drotsky's had been divided into narrow channels by islands of pampas grass and papyrus. Here, further upriver and much closer to the dam, the river was wide and open,
though judging by the pinkish brown back of a hippo that protruded above the water's surface, it was not all that deep. She could see the far shore, several hundred metres away, which was the beginning of the Bwabwata National Park. More country that was largely empty, except for animals.

A force travelling by boat might be able to conceal itself by taking a quiet channel downstream, but here all traffic was clearly visible from both sides of the river.

The Okavango was flowing quite fast, judging by the stems of grass and a plastic bag that motored past her. Beneath the platform was a swimming cage, about eight by eight metres, held afloat by old fuel drums and fringed with a rickety-looking wooden walkway. The cage was to protect swimmers from wildlife. Hippo, it was often said, killed more people than any other animal in Africa, but Sonja knew crocodiles were responsible for savaging and killing plenty of locals who swam, bathed, and herded their cattle on the edges of the rivers in the Kavango and Caprivi regions of Namibia. A girl in a bikini, with a large tattoo of a butterfly on the red skin of her back, was sunbathing. An African man with dreadlocks and a runner's build was kneeling on the walkway, pulling out clumps of grass and weed, and another bag that had snagged on the mesh of the cage. A sign warned swimmers that if they pissed in the cage they'd be drinking it later, downstream in Maun. Sonja conceded a smile.

Cheryl-Ann came out onto the deck followed by the men, like a mother duck.

She waited until she had reached Sonja before producing the keys she had collected from reception. ‘Here you go, Sam, Gerry and Jim. You've each got what they call a treehouse bungalow, on the water.'

Sonja said nothing and didn't put her hand out for a key. She had already guessed what was coming.

‘Sonja, I'm afraid we didn't book a room for you. The plan was always for the guide to camp in or with the vehicle, to look after it.'

‘No problem. It shouldn't be too far from the camp site to your bungalows, so you won't have too far to carry your gear.'

Rickards made a face behind Cheryl-Ann's back and Sam just rolled his eyes. She cared nothing for the petty point scoring Cheryl-Ann had initiated. In fact, she cared nothing for these spoiled people and their insignificant contribution to the world. ‘The Land Rover's unlocked. I'm going to check out the camp site.'

Sonja headed down the sandy path to the floating swimming cage. The reddened girl was still baking on the wooden deck and the African guy Sonja had seen earlier was sitting on the edge with his feet in the water.

‘Morning,' he said.

‘Howzit?' Sonja said.

‘Fine and you?'

‘
Lekker
, man.' Because of her shortage of clothes Sonja was wearing her bikini under her safari clothes, as underwear. She took off her shirt and slid out of her sandals and shorts and did a shallow dive into the confines of the cage. The water was cool and as soon as she surfaced she felt the current drag her to the downstream end of the enclosure. She turned and started a lazy breaststroke against the river's flow. With a little effort she maintained a stationary position in the centre of the floating pool. It was a novel way to get a little exercise, and a good reminder that any approach towards the dam would have to be done in boats with outboard motors. Even though the river was low, the current was still fast, so stealthy kayaks were probably out of the question.

‘Looks like you're getting nowhere,' the African man said, smiling.

‘You don't know how right you are, my friend.'

He laughed.

‘I saw you pulling rubbish out of the cage before,' she said. ‘Do you work here?'

‘No, but it doesn't mean I don't care for the environment. That dam they're building upstream is responsible for too much pollution.'

‘How so?'

‘Plastic bags and other rubbish dumped by the construction workers in the water, oil and diesel from the trucks and bulldozers, unchecked flows of silt during construction. Anywhere else in the world they'd be prosecuted.'

‘Anywhere else in the world and it wouldn't have been built, for environmental reasons. You sound like you know what you're talking about.'

He laughed again, deep and hearty. ‘Don't let the 'do and the duds fool you, sister,' he said, pointing at his dreadlocks and the shiny red baggy board shorts he wore, hanging low down on his arse so his Calvin Klein underwear was showing at the back. ‘I've got a degree in Environmental Management from the University of Zimbabwe, but the only way I can made a buck is as a guide on an overland tour truck. That dam's going to kill a beautiful thing.' The white girl stirred, sat on the edge of the pool and slid in. ‘The locals won't notice it so much here upriver, but it's going to kill the environment downstream, and hurt the tourism business at the same time. All because of greed.'

Sonja nodded. ‘For water?'

‘For money,' the guide said. ‘Some people have big plans for the Caprivi Strip once that dam is finished. It's not just about hydro-electricity and water for Windhoek; there are plans for more mines, including diamonds, and large-scale commercial farming up there.' He gestured north, over his shoulder, with a thumb. ‘Big money.'

*

‘That incredible bird, flying just above the water with its bill in the water, is an African skimmer,' Sam said to the camera. The boatman had cut the outboard and they were drifting silently, swiftly, down the Okavango.

‘It's listed as near-threatened and there are as few as fifteen thousand of these incredible creatures left on earth. It catches small fish by flying with its lower beak – its mandible – just beneath the surface of the water. Amazing.'

‘Great,' Cheryl-Ann said.

‘I'm loving this light,' Rickards said, panning slowly and pulling back on the focus to take in more of the sky, which was a triple-layer cocktail of deep pink, gold and azure.

Sam looked to Sonja, who was scanning the bank through binoculars. ‘Why is the species threatened?'

She lowered her binoculars. ‘Habitat destruction, especially because of dams. Rising waters flood the sand bars and banks where they breed. Also, pesticides and other run-off from intensive farming can kill the little fish that the skimmers feed on. You should put that in your program.'

‘Jim?' Sam said. The cameraman held up a finger, wanting to catch a few more seconds of vision of the sky.

‘Let's not get into politics until we've had a chance to inspect the dam and interview the folks upriver,' Cheryl-Ann announced.

Sam was about to argue, but he knew it would be pointless. The more he learned about the hydro-electric power plan for the Okavango, the less he liked the sound of it, but perhaps Cheryl-Ann had a point. There seemed to be a truce between the two women on the boat this evening, but it was still an uneasy one.

Sam had left his treehouse and walked to the campground half an hour before their departure to see if Sonja needed help setting up. Predictably, her small camp site was already established and her gear stowed with military precision. He found her at the pool,
where she told him she was enjoying her second swim for the day. She invited him in.

‘I can't. I don't want to ruin my hair or makeup.'

She laughed out loud and he marvelled again at how that simple act could transform her and make him feel so good.

He tried not to stare at her breasts when she climbed out and put her clothes on over her wet swimsuit. ‘I read that article about you,' she said.

He stayed silent and waited for her verdict.

‘It's not easy seeing a friend die.' She was stating the obvious, but the way she said it made him think it had happened to her, too. ‘Wouldn't have picked you as a teenage car thief, though.'

He'd told Sonja the truth, by the pool, as he looked out over the Okavango, that the car had belonged to David's mum, who had let him use it unsupervised on plenty of occasions before the accident. Denise Rollins was a lush, who let her teenage son take her car so he could drive to the liquor store for her. David had insisted Sam drive that night and had urged him to go faster and faster. David had bought the pot, as well, although Sam had smoked some.

‘You didn't tell all this to the judge?' Sonja asked.

‘It didn't lessen the fact that I was the driver and my best buddy was dead. I didn't want to make it harder on his mom by dragging their names through the mud.'

Rebecca, his former girlfriend, had told him he was a sap for not mounting a stronger defence, when he had told her the same story.

‘Good for you,' Sonja had said. ‘Come. The boat guide's waiting for us.'

Out on the motorised pontoon Sonja had impressed Sam and the others – even Cheryl-Ann, he suspected – with her ability to spot birds and wildlife, sometimes even before their experienced
African guide, Julius. While Sonja and Julius scanned the riverbanks for game, Sam stood in front of the camera.

‘Action,' Cheryl-Ann said.

Sam cleared his throat and looked into the lens. ‘The Okavango River rises in the highlands of Angola, to the north of where I am now, where it's known by its local name, the Kabango. From there it passes through this part of Namibia, before entering Botswana. Here it flows as a wide river, fully deserving that title. If you imagine a skillet then where we are is on the handle – in fact it's known as the panhandle here – but as it winds south through Botswana the river runs into ground that's been lifted and rippled by millennia of seismic activity and it starts to split into numerous small rivers and creeks. The Okavango finally peters out in the Kalahari Desert into myriad seasonal channels that only flow after the annual rains.'

‘Elephants,' Sonja whispered. ‘Turn, Julius, quickly, hey. They're coming just now to drink.'

‘Cut, Sam. I don't see any elephants, Sonja,' Cheryl-Ann said.

Julius was swinging the outboard. He pointed with his free hand.

Sam saw the cloud of dust, which was tinged pink by the setting sun's rays. Of the animals themselves there was still no sign.

Another tourist boat saw them turn, and the spreading V of their wake on the shiny brass surface of the water as Julius accelerated. Julius called across the water and the guide on the other craft swung his tiller to follow them. The first of the elephants came into view.